


A new world

by Wassersaeufer



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wassersaeufer/pseuds/Wassersaeufer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It came over the world like a tidal wave, changing everything. When Daenerys Targaryens "Children" hatched from their eggs, the dam broke and a force not seen for thousands of years returned, hitting the realms of men with the subtility of a charging army.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It had once been a land of beauty and magic, of mysteries and secrets. Where wild things roamed the forests and marshes, where giants and titans left behind their footprints all over the relams, where great flying beasts ruled the sky. Then, things changed. Slowly, magic, the one force fueling all this, died out. And in a world filled with such wonders, such an event meant the end of the things as they were known.

It had been long before the invasion of the Andals, before the first men had been pushed out of their ancestral realms and conquered by the newcomers. The Children of the forests and the Others turned into legends, giants and dragons and beasts of terror became rare and even died out. When finally the last dragon died, his head only as big as an apple, magic had nearly completely vanished from the world.

Sure, there still was some of it left, subtle and in secret and hidden from view, but all in all all this wonders had left the worlds and became legends and myths, stories told to children to entertain or frighten them.

At least until a small group of dragons hatched, on the funeral pyre of their mothers husband. And while already their mother was reborn, the barriers crumbled. Because then the dam holding back magic from the realm of men broke and wave after wave of mythical power streamed into the world, twisting, changing and turning things alive and dead into new, sometimes terrifying, forms.

-

It hit the northern army shortly after the battle of the whispering woods. People all over the north fell to the ground in agony, clutching their heads, writhering on the ground while screaming and yelling. Animals paniked, men and women alike were nearly driven insane by the pain. Bones broke and rearranged themselves, muscles ripped and grew new, hearts stopped for seconds before growing bigger, lungs increased in incapicity. Fingers curled and broke, eyes filled with blood, tongues were bitten, ears reshaped themselves.

-

Monster returned. Some were born, some were awoken, some turned from their normal smaller kin into their new forms. And some just appeared out of the darkness, out of the mighty rivers, the dark forests, the dangerous swamps and the high mountains. Some dark, some light, some terrible and some kind. And some just were.

-

When it happened Stannis Baratheon was not sure wether to be afraid or just appalled. Because despite his believe that the Red Woman had powers, he would not have thought that there was even more to be seen, more to discover, more secrets waiting in the darkness to be found. And one of these secrets was coming alive right in front of his eyes, surprising everyone, even Melisandre who only stared as everyone else did.

-

While all over the world things and people and animals were twisted and turned, storms raged across the Ironman Bay. Brutal, wild storms, unrelentless and terrible, sinking ships, flooding small islands, cutting off the Iron Islands from the mainland for weeks to come. And while the storms were raging, things long slumbering were awoken and came to the surface, while the islands themselves came to live.

-

In the capital of the seven kingdoms a small, caged bird grew claws, fangs and a temper, lashing out and barring her teeth at her captors. A small man heard voices and saw things not there, heard whispers in the hallways when he was alone, had troubled sleeping because of dreams and he saw shadows in the corner of his eyes. And a king had a vision of beauty and power, a paradise in his own image, just like he had always wanted it.

-

And the War turned only more bitter and furious. And without anyone knowing, the worst was yet to come.


	2. Robb Stark: Army of beasts

High in the Vale, up on the highest mountain in all of Westeros, stood the Eyrie. Though the smallest of the grand castles of the whole realm it was one of the most famous ones, for being never been conquered and said to be impregnable. Higher than any other castle, able to withstand a siege for generations, as long as the storages held out, the center of the Vale. Since the death of it's lord Arryn, the Hand of the King, his wife Lysa had retreated to this castle, her son Robert with her. 

Brynden Tully, called the Blackfish, was concerned with the behaviour of his niece and he had been on the way to leave the Vale to ride to Riverrun, when the Change, as it would later be called by the generations to come, came over the Vale like a tidal wave. He himself did not fell victim to it, yet he saw how the sky turned dark and lightning flashed in unusual colors. At first he thought it was only a storm, but when strange winds came down from the highest mountain peaks and his horse broke out he reckoned something wicked was happening.

Thrown to the ground he tried to get back to his feet, when the earth itself rebelled and a shockwave run through the entire ground. The small party of knights and soldiers ran for cover, knowing to fear a rockslide, but it was already too late. Men and animals screamed alike in panic, threw themselves to the ground and dove for cover, but too many were buried by the massive rocks and a single horse was swallowed by a suddenly opening cleft in the earth.

Brynden had never been a very religious man, yet he send prayer after prayer to the seven or even the old gods, silently under his breath, when it suddenly stopped. He waited for another few seconds, before finally looking around. Right in front of him was... something. He looked up... and up... and up... and up.

Encased in a skin of rock and earth stood a barely humanoid creature, like molded by time and water and the seasons. In it's broad, rough face were two small holes filled with darkness where the eyes would have been in the face of a human and yet Brynden got the impressions it was looking at him. For several moments the massive thing just stared at him, before finally turning around and striding away with heavy, lumbering steps.

Brynden just stared after it, unable to close his mouth.

-

Theon Greyjoy was in pain. One moment he was just sleeping peacefully after a good, hard fuck with a serving girl, when he was awoken by a terrible pain in his hands. And then his legs. And his arms. And finally over his whole body. He had not been the only one, to be precise nearly everyone in the camp broke down or was awoken in terrible pains, when their bodies changed and turned into something else, bones breaking and changing and growing back together.

But while in everyones else case it stopped after a few minutes with only the lingering dull pain in their heads and the irony taste of blood in their mouths, Theon remained screaming in pain and agony. His clothes were ripped open, his bones and organs grew and his skin hardened and grew rough and leathery. And while all this happened his head felt like it was going to explode.

He was laying on the ground of his tent, several men trying to hold him down, while outside of it Robb stood and swallowed hard. While the pain in his own body had passed, it was obvious that his best friend was still driven mad by it. Still, he had an army to lead.

How he wished his mother was there, but she had not left her tent, terrifyied by the screams of the man and women and after seeing her son she had fleed back to the refuge of her sleeping arangements. Robb could not hold it against her, as he knew that he would have most likely done the same.

When the pain had passed, he had been changed. His eyes were sharper, his ears were better and he could smell and taste better than he had thought it ever possible. But a look in the mirror had revealed startling, terrifying changes. His eyebrows were now bushy and thick, his nose flater and his features sharper. And then there was the fact, that his fingernails had turned into small but sharp claws, as well as the nails on his feet, thus damaging his boots.

All of the northerners had changed. For hours he and his liegemen had to force order, Lord Karstark even threatening with hanging troublemakers if they will not remain silent. With the new sharp teeth and the slitted pupils, together with his bestial appearance, it was very frightening for those facing his wrath.

And now, long past noon, there was still confusion and terror in the army. Several of his men have commited suicide, others had deserted and fled into the forest, but those had been few and far between. Now they had at least a fragile kind of order and stability, though it was only a question of time before that would change again. Some men were whispering about this being a punishment from the gods, the old or the new, for defying the king, but Robb could not even start to think like that.

Then the Maester, an old man who had been unaffected by the change, stepped out of the tent and immediately Robb was in front of him. „What is happening?“

For a second the older man looked at him with wide eyes and a slightly frightened expression, before he swallowed. „I... I don't know... I don't think anyone knows... this...“ He searched for words, before he just shrugged. „I'm sorry my Lord, I can not say anything. But I will send Ravens to Winterfell and Oldtown, perhaps...“

Robb nodded. Of course. Perhaps Luwin knew more about what was happening and if not, then perhaps he could offer some sort of advise. And Robb also was keen on knowing if something had happened to his brothers. Was this event a solitary one, affecting only his host or had there been other, related ones somewhere else?

-

The remaining day, and the three after that, he had to spend organizing a nightmare. Small scale Rebellions and unrest had to be put down, order had to be restored and food had to be brought in. Lord Umber had thought of keeping the men busy with a small tourney, a friendly one, to keep up the morale, but that had turned into a major disaster when the fighters overbalanced or lost the grip on their weapons because of their claws. Thus Robb had ordered drill, hard drill, to get his men back in shape. He himself joined them as often as possible, to keep his mind from wandering too far. He learned fast that his new body was different not only in appearance, like his now rather wild hair, but also was he faster, stronger and had a longer breath. Excercises that would have winded him before now did still face him, but he could go on longer.

Perhaps this was a blessing in disguise, yet it was hard getting his mind around the fact, that he now looked not human anymore. Though Grey Wind had no problems with it, he was sure neither Lord Frey would be thrilled to find out that his Son in Law had turned into a manbeast, nor any of the southern lords. Even his own mother had refused to see him since it had happened, seeking seclusion in her tent and not leaving it.

And while he sat over the reports of his officers and lords about the lay of the land, the situation of the storages and the morale of his troops, in the back of his mind he knew that he had to hurry, because Riverrun was still under siege and Tywin Lannister was somewhere out there, only waiting for an opportunity to strike. Of course having the beloved son of the Old Lion in their hands was some sort of security for the northerners, but one could never be completely safe from an enemy such as Tywin Lannister. He had outmaneuvered him once, yet he was not willing to bet the life of his men on a second time if he could help it.

But there was still unrest in the northern ranks, though less and less every day. Theon had only stopped screaming because his throat was too raw and he had no strength left to do so, leaving him a whimpering, shaking wreck of a body. And what a body it was. Larger than even the Greatjon, broader too and with arms thicker than other mans legs. And horns, can't forget the horns. While Robb and his kinsmen were at least somewhat human in looks, though with a touch of bestiality in their features and posture, Theon was turning into something completely else. The maester had a hunch that it was because he was an ironborn, as only the northerners of the army had changed their form, while everyone not from the North, like Robb's mother and the maester himself, had not.

Deciding to leave the questions of why and what exactly had happened for another time, and preferably to someone else, Robb left his tent and stepped into the cool air of the encampment, Grey Wind at his side. Immediately he smelled the odors of dozens of men, sweat, bodily fluids, grease and metal, leather and smoke, more intense than ever before. At first it had been unpleasant smelling all these, but he had adjusted quite fast, as everyone did. Was this what Grey Wind had to experience every day? Well, at least he was no longer alone in his suffering.

Accompanied by two men of his personal guard he visited Lord Umber at the big training area, where he was busy beating up a group of smaller men. Now even more imposing and intimidating than before, Lord „Greatjon“ Umber was a sight to behold. His beard wilde and untamed, his now yellow eyes like pools of wildness and danger under bushy, white and grey eyebrows, now combined with elongated canines and sharp claws. Though his training sword was blunt and thus not deadly, it still hurt to be hit by it. A group of onlookers had gathered around the improvised ring, yelling and clapping with every hit that found it's mark, talking and betting.

While Robb watched the training fight he could not help to shudder at the thought of facing a man like the Greatjon. But then again, he did not have too. The Lannister men had too. And not only one, but more than fifteen thousand of them. Yes, perhaps this was a blessing in disguise.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by a messenger, a squire he did not know. Like his own squire Olyvar Frey this one was apparently a riverlander, perhaps also a Frey, as he still looked like an ordinary human. He cought himself pitying the boy for being surrounded by beings now so strange to him.

„My Lord, Lord Glover has returned. He says he has important news.“

With a last look to the spectacle, the Greatjon had by now beat down two of his enemies and was busy trading blows with the last one, he nodded and thanked the young man, boy, before making his way back to his tent. Lord Galbart Glover waited for him in front of it, still dressed in his armor and coat because he had just returned from his scouting. With him was Lord Karstark, silent and his faces grim, though that wasn't surprising. Lord Karstark had lost two of his sons in the last battle, both dying to protect Robb, something he would never forget as they weren't just loyal men, but also his friends.

After a servant had brought some food and lemon water, Lord Glover gave his report. He and his men had not met any resistance, but found several burned villages and hamlets. Still they had been able to get a lot of supplies and a few men fleeing from the Lannister armies had told them in frightened voices of strange rumors. Of wolves prowling the forests and bothering the armies of the Westerlands, other strange sights and of the Mountain fleeing from Harrenhall. Though the last one was more startling than believable, it told Robb one thing: That whatever had happened to him and his men wasn't a solitary event.

„Call the other Lords“, he said to Olyvar. „We have a war to plan.“

-

It was another two days before Theon was up and standing again. Two days in which the northern host covered more ground than they would have done in three under normal circumstances. Neither speed nor supplies were a problem, as the soldiers were able to live of the land quite well if they had to and marched faster and longer than any normal army could do. The problem was keeping the discipline. Again and again fights broke out and the officers had to step in when their men were baring their teeth and snarling at each other like animals, sometimes they even began to claw at each other. It was frightening how fast they had adapted to their new forms, how easily they fell into the habit of using their new features.

Robb was about to break his feast and lying down for a night full of sleep, when a man informed him that Theon Greyjoy was awake and aparently no longer in pain. When he arrived the young Ironborn was lying on the ground, as no bed was big enough for him any longer, and sipping on some hot soup while the maester and his assistand were on the other side of the tent, silently whispering to each other. Robb gave the somewhat old man a polite nod and got a bow in return, before turning to Theon.

„It is good to see you awake“, he said after sitting down on a small chair. And it was. The maester had been unable to tell if he would make it, the pain and the strain on the body should have killed him halfway through the process. But there he was, perhaps not healthy, but alive.

„I still feel like I'm in a bad dream“, Theon answered, his voice now several octaves deeper and his throat apparently dry. But it was still his tone, his arrogant smirk, even if now with a pair of tusks between his lips.

Robb could relate and hated himself for feeling pity. But he could not help it. While he himself was only turned into something of a wild man, his friend now looked as if he was one of the monsters a knight would slay to save the maiden. His face, thought still his features hidden in there, were harder and brutal, his body was nearly eight feet tall and broad, his limbs were long and thick. And he had horns. Four big horns adorned his head, like those of a ram, only that he had two pairs of them. But his eyes were still like Robb remembered him, sharp and awake.

„I'm afraid not“, Robb finally said. „I don't know what had happened. It is like the gods have decided to play a cruel joke on the realms.“

He got no answer. Only the smirk had vanished and for a moment it seemed as if Theon stared into nothingness, before he returned to this world. He took another sip from the soup, he had not eaten in the last days, and waited for a few moments before he whispered: „Well, I'm sure the women will be delighted to hear that everything on me had grown.“

The Lord of Winterfell could not take it any longer and his body shook with laughter. It was good having his friend back at his side and even better knowing he had not lost his beloved, or not so beloved, character. For hours the two sat in the tent, joking and laughing and drinking wine while Theon gorged himself on whatever was brought to him.

Halfway into the night a serving maid brought a set of clothes for the young Ironborn, as he had all but burst out of his old ones. Though they were of semicore quality at best and Theon eyed them with distaste, he put them on. The tunic was of a deep brown color and the breeches nearly white, both of scratchy wool, but it was better than being naked. „I guess I should order a new sword too“, he said after putting on the tunic.

Robb repressed a pained smile. „Yes, I think so. Perhaps we should just give you a tree and call it a club.“

Theon snorted at that. „Bha. That would may have been fitting for you Stark, but I prefer to use an actual weapon when I kill someone.“

„You could also just use your hands. Big enough are they.“

The Ironborn did not answer, but only stared at his hands, before he finally said: „Has there been messages from Pyke?“

Pyke? Why should the Greyjoys send message to the northern host? Robb was confused for a second, before he understood. Theon did not think for a second that such a message could have arrived, he just hoped for it. „No. But we are on the march. Even carried by a raven, a message could take weeks before we would get it. I'm sure not even my message to Maester Luwin has arrived in Winterfell yet.“

„Yes, of course“, gave the other man back, turning back to face him. „Only you northerners have changed. Those not from the north, like the Maester, have remained as they were. And I...“ A short pause followed, then he added: „Perhaps back home something like this have happened too.“

Robb sighed slightly and his shoulders sacked. „Are you so keen on leaving me?“ It was a joke, but a bad one, both could tell.

-

The army of the North was on the march again, moving quickly through the fertile lands to the west of the Blue Fork. More and more Robb was getting the impression that this change that has come over him and his men, had not been a curse but a blessing by the Old Gods. Perhaps they hade given them the strength of the wolves, as Grey Wind was feeling right at ease with all these rather now strange humans. His host was moving at a speed more fitting for a band of outlaws, unhindered by the lay of the land and crossing even difficult terrain at an incredible speed.

Over the last days his scouts had found several stragglers of the Lannister army, a few roaming deserters here, several small bands of soldiers there. It wasn't unusual that soldiers deserted from an army in times of war, but the amount of them now roaming the Riverlands, looting and burning, where frightening. Not as frightened as these men were themselves when the northern scouts came over them to be fair. Most fled whan they saw them, other cursed them as monsters and fought for their bare lives, unwilling to be taken prisoner.

In a very strange way it was a relief for Robb, as he wasn't forced to take care of even more prisoners, prisoners who would eat supplies, slow them down and had to be watched. Though he felt no satisfaction in the knowledge that they were dead, he knew it made this war easier for him. But on the other hand...

„What do you think will happen now?“, he asked and turned to the side, looking at his ironborn friend. While Robb was riding, though the animal had at first been startled by his smell and had to be taught anew to carry a rider such as him, Theon was walking. He was big enough that his long legs carried him faster and further than any man could hope too match, most likely even the fabled Gregor Clegane would have to look up to him. „What will Tywin Lannister do?“

Theon snorted slightly and sneered, his lips parting to give way for a frightening row of teeth and tusks. „He will most likely piss his pant's and try to hide his cock as deep in his rock as he can.“

Though Robb was not believing that, he was actually rather happy for the positive, even arrogant outlook on the events his best friend was showing. It was a nice change from the grim and determined outlook most of his bannerman had.

Both young men, both changed from the last days in ways no one could have even hoped to think of, joked a bit around and had a few laughs, giving Robb a few moments of rest from the sorrows of his days and allowing him to ease his mind a bit. Now that his mother had chosen not to speak to him, a thought that hurt more than he could have imagined, the ward of his father had become his closest confidant. And it wasn't such a bad deal, even if Theon was somewhat inexperienced, he still was not afraid to speak his mind when he felt Robb was wrong.

But that moment of rare luck was soon ended when a group of outriders returned at full speed to the host, their leader immediately making his way to the heavily guarded Lord of Winterfell. „Lord Stark, we have urgent news“, he said as he had stopped his horse directly in front of Robb. The poor animal was panting and fuming, about to give out under his rider. „A host of Riverland men led by Lord Brynden Tully is en route to Riverrun and waiting for us to join them. A day's march to the south of here.“


	3. Stannis Baratheon: Fire and Stone

There are shadows in the woods, as there are in mens hearts. Be it in the wild, brooding forests of the north or the dense woods of the stormlands, there are places where no man had ever set food, where the the wild was still untouched. People whispered about those places, about what wonders may live there, what terrors were hiding there from the light of humankind. Old stories to frighten children not to disobey their parents, hushed conversations in dimly lit taverns and on low camp fires, this was their home.

It wasn't just the dark woods of course, it was the deepest part of the rivers, the hottest deserts, the highest mountains, the deepest dales. But whatever or whereever it was, stories were told, of old and terrifying beasts, of inhuman things prowling the dark. Once, these stories had perhaps been the truth, a warning, but when the last dragon died even the oldest of those things had vanished.

Until now.

Wolves the size of ponies prowling in the forests, inhuman terrors hiding just beyond mans sight, creatures never thought of sneaking around isolated hamlets and inns. The shrieking of unseen monsters filled the air by night, the trails of animals bigger than they should be were found all around the seven kingdoms and sometimes hunters and forest men and farmers walked out to their daily work and never returned.

People learned fast, that doors are best locked at night and weapons best at hand all the time.

-

It had been weeks into the war, after his brother had died and the Lannister armies hafd began to ravage the Riverlands, when the first signs began to show. It had been, of course, Melisandre who had been the first to notice, her usual mysterious and cryptic way of speaking turning into even more confusing and puzzling sentences. For a few times Stannis Baratheon had thought about banishing her altogether, especially after she had ran through the castle in obvious distress and muttering and sometimes even yelling about the Lord of Lights ways being not meant for human minds.

Perhaps she had seen something in her fires or heard whispers in the dark, he did not know and neither did he care. All he knew was, was that she had proclaimed him Azor Ahai come again, the newborn legendary hero of her faith who was said to have slain the Others some eight thousand years ago, and the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. And that she had power, even if only over minds perhaps.

Still, nothing could have prepared him, or anyone else for that matter, for the things to come. In the night it happened Melisandre was twisting and turning on the ground, screaming and yelling, speaking on tongues and acting like she was possessed. Several men were needed to hold her down and Maester Cressen was at a loss what was happening with her. 

Then the world was turned upside down, or at least that was the impression Stannis had from that moment.

The fires in the castle, being them cooking fires or torches or the great pyre from the prayers to the Lord of Light, became small infernos in a matter of seconds. Stone walls, holding for hundred of years, were suddenly creaking and shuddering like they were about to collaps. The great dragon statues adorning the outer walls and high towers began to crumble and turned into dust lik time was running faster for them, much faster. People, healthy and strong moments ago, were falling to the ground, twisted in pain.

And though his own eyes burned like they were on fire, Stannis heard the screams of his daughter from her chambers. Later he would tell himself, and others, that it was a logical decision to do so, that all he could do was helping her while he was unable to do something else, but part of him resented that explanation. The fact was, that he began to run up to her chambers, ignoring any calls for help from someone else and stormed into her room without regard to his own safety.

Flames licked at him and the whole room was a burning inferno, as if hot tongues of fire just leaked out of the walls. And there were... things. He had no words to describe what he saw, all he knew was that faces and images were in the flames and in the stone, small creatures of tiny body were crawling around the room. Shireen was huddled into a corner, as if hiding from whatever it was that was attacking her.

Without wasting a moment to think Stannis grabbed the nearest weapon, a hot fire rake in this case, and pushed his way to his daughter, ignoring the hot pain in his hand. Roughly he grabbed her and pulled her into his arms, where she clammed herself onto him, before fleeing from the room. He could not help to hear whispers and laughter over the roaring of the flames.

-

He took the news of the death of his wife with a solemn face set in a scold, as if it was just a minor nuisance. She had thrown herself from the battlements when the madness that had taken hold of Westeros had come, got crushed by the waves and found only days later. He did not know what to feel about her death, what to think about losing her. She had been a dutifull, good wife, but beside that... No, her had certainly not loved her.

Was it guilt or regret he felt? He could not really say, the state of things was just too confusing and strange at the moment to have time for grief. At least that was what he told himself. And perhaps he just could not say what it was that he felt about it, besides some sort of sudden pain in his chest. But there was no hole, no feeling of loss, nothing like he had experienced when his parents had died.

So he just scowled and returned to duty, informing Melisandre to take care of the funeral, as Selyse had converted to the faith of R'hllor. He had to prepare for a war, a long, brutal war, before he could take the time to grief his loss... if he would do it at all.

The first thing he needed to do was to sort out the mess the last days had brought him and his people. Many ships had sunk because of wild, sudden storms of unusual strength and he clenched his teeth at the idea of having lossed so many of his forces, though Davos was already busy with covering their losses and hiring sellsails. The damage to the castle itself was, surprisingly, rather minor and besides some cracked walls here and there and burned furniture not mach had been damaged. But it had changed in some places, like it had become a different castle alltogether.

Staircases suddenly led somewhere else, hallways were twisted and longer, the dungeons had grown into a cave system of immense size. And where dragon statues had adorned the walls and roofs, now twisted, ugly creatures made from stone and lava were sitting and leering down at the sea or the island, their mouthes filled with sharp teeth and impossible long tongues. All in all it was like he had never before seen the place.

Several of his men had tried to desert, but there was nowhere to go and he had them hung, and most of the rest had flocked to the faith of the new god, the Red God. Because wasn't fire his element, his gift to humankind? Stannis could not help but to feel like Melisandre was rather smug about all this, despite the wracking fits of pain she had to endure since the change. Perhaps because she had every reason to be, as her magic powers had increased tenfold in strength.

And then there was of course the case of his daughter... and himself.

Were once storm blue eyes had sat, now there were deep pools of swirling red and blue colours, turning and twisting and confusing everyone who looked at them, giving others even headaches. As if he had not had enough trouble at holding a conversation, now not even Davos was able to look him into the face for longer than a minute or two. Shireen had it even worse, as the loss of her mother had hit her very hard and he himself had no idea what to do with her. Maester Cressen was at a loss too and he had other duties anyway, having no time for the small, sweet girl.

There were several other men with such a condition as well, five to be precise, though all of them were soldiers of exceptional skill and strength of will, who had shown their loyalty and strength in combat time and time again. It was a mystery to anyone why his shy daughter had such eyes as well, but as he had no answers, he did not ask such a question at all.

It was his duty as the rightful king to fight for his throne, as it was his duty to his people to sort this mess out. But it was also his duty as a father to protect his child, now that his wife was dead even more so. It was perhaps the hardest one, as he was at a total loss of what to do, how to deal with the situation, even a bit afraid and the last three days he had used every opportunity and excuse not to see her.

But now there was no denying this duty, even Davos was telling him that he should do it, even if he just suggested it. As the former smuggler was a father himself, and one of the few men who actually had the backbone to critizise him, Stannis was forced to admit that he was the perhaps best source for advice about parenthood.

Swallowing his fear he made his way up to his daughters new chambers, as the old ones were not suited for her any longer. When he arrived he did not knock, he just opened the door and stepped in... and got a surprise. A big one. His daughter sat on her bed, reading a book, while to her left another small creature sat, like a favorite pet.

Tiny antlers like that of a small stag adorned it's dragon like head, it had the body of a young wolf or dog and the six legs ended in lethal looking claws. Covered in coal black and grey fur it was some sort of twisted, strange thing unlike anything else in the world, though not bigger than a cat. But from the look of it, with the oversized head and eyes and the short legs and tail, he guessed it to be a young one.

And when it looked up at him he got the impression that it was smiling.

-

His first thought had been to kill it, but when he had tried to do so his daughter had thrown herself in front of it, shielding it from him, calling it her friend and companion. Somehow he lost the fight of wills against his daughter, though swearing that once the creature would turn out to be a danger to her, he would not hesitate again. The next day he forgot the promise.

Not because the thing, not yet named by Shireen though she said she was thinking about a proper name, vanished or took care of itself like he had hoped, but because he suddenly understood. Because when he woke up that morning in his chambers, chambers which had miraculously refused to turn into something else when the remaining castle was turned upside down, he was not alone. Next to his bed slept an animal, a big, hulking and dangerous animel. 

Like the small friend of his daughter it had a head crowned with antlers, though these were astonishing big and awe inspiring regal. And while its head was like that of a stag, though broader and a bit shorter, its body was build like a that of a bull. Hooves of iron and a twisting, long tail adorned this nightmarish creature and while Stannis should have been terrified, all he felt was... kinship.

On a level that was unnatural he understood that this strong, dangerous animal would never hurt him, because it was bound to him. HE was bound to him. They belonged together, like two shoes of the same pair. He knew that he should have been confused, but all Stannis felt was a sense of security, warmth and companionship.


	4. Edmure Tully: King of the Hills and Queen of the Rivers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Riverlands have always pulled the short straw in wars, always receiving the brunt of the fighting. When the War of the Five Kings started, something old awoke, something that would change history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken liberties with the history of the war of five kings, especially who was in command where and when, I hope you can forgive this little decision. It just makes it easier for me to write an interesting story. I knew that Kevan Lannister was not in command of the forces besieging Riverrun but it was Jamie in the books, but I wanted the younger brother of Tywin to be there for a reason.

When she had appeared for the first time the rivers had been wild and brutal, streaming faster than anyone could remember. Several men and women died in the cold waters of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, pulled under the surface by the fast running currents and sometimes something more sinister. People cowered in their houses, hiding from the unnatural storms and hoping to survive this time of madness.

The men of the army besieging Riverrun did not have the luxury of buildings of stone and wood over their heads, they only had their tents and makeshift shelters, huddled together and sending prayers to every god that would listen. Lightning flashed and hit the camp and the woods surrounding it, setting tents and trees ablaze and men and animal alike into frenzied panic. Though the men and women of Riverrun weren't spared by this freak happenings, they were hiding behind thick castle walls and under heavy oaken roofs.

There was a fire despite these protections and armed men and serving women were needed alike to put it out, so that no one saw her appearing. No one despite the Lord of the Riverlands himself, Hoster Tully.

Bedridden because of the sickness that had taken hold of him, a fever taking its toll on his body. He was delirious not only because of his age, but also because of the illness that had him in its claws, projecting images inside his head from a better time. When his little Cat and his sweet little Lysa, oh his sweet, sweet girl, were running around and swimming in the river, laughing and playing. When he himself had been a boy, playing with Brynden and learning how to hold a sword. 

He wasn't asleep, not really, when she stepped up to his bed. In the dark she wasn't to make out and he would not have been able to do so anyway, his eyes too weak to see properly and his mind to confused to understand. If he could have seen her, he would have gazed onto the image of a woman of ageless beauty, her long, black hair wet as if she had come out of a bath or perhaps a dip in the river, her simple dress clinging to her body from the water. But her eyes... so dark and twisted, so deep and furious with anger and hate.

"Are you my king?", she asked him, her voice a whisper in the dark, but still heavy with strained anger and frustration. "Where is my king? I want my king!"

He did not answer, he could not, he just coughed and groaned from the strain on his body and mind alike. Again she asked him if he was her king, her melodic voice shrill and pregnant with fury. Like before he did not answer, only groaning, enraging her even more.

"I WANT MY KING!! MY KING!!! WHERE IS MY KING?!!!"

Later that night a servant found the Lord of Riverrun dead in his bed. He had drowned, his lungs filled with water, yet his bed and clothing dry.

-

Kevan Lannister was tired. Since the start of this war, a war he did not believe in, he had done nothing else than laying siege to the seat of the Tullys. Not that he felt any hate for them, not in the long run, he was just doing his duty like his brother had ordered him to do. And he was nothing if not dutyfull, knowing where his loyalities were laying and what was expected from him, namely doing as said. His brother, the famous Tywin Lannister, was the man who was said to shit gold and crush enemies with his will alone, the fabeled old lion. Of course Kevan could only come up short in comparison, he had no illusions about that.

He, as the younger one, was not known as his brother was, neither was his name whispered in the dark or spoken about in hushed voices. Not that he was a bad commander, not in a long shot, but he was just living in a big shadow, bigger than life perhaps. But he knew his brother quite well, perhaps better than anyone else. He knew the face behind the old lion, the eyes when they were not hard, before the loss of his love, before his dreams have died, he even knew the boy who was brave enough to ride the biggest, meanest horse despite their father forbidding it. He also knew the young man enarmored with his betrothed, the man who was afraid of the wedding like of no battle before.

And he kept all this to himself, because he was a good brother, a loyal and obidient soldier and able commander, knowing all to well what such words would do to his brothers reputation. To their houses reputation. They were feared far and wide, the idea of facing off against the mighty Lord Protector of the Westerlands was enough to let most quiver in their boots, a weapon and tool better than a hundred swords.

And still, sometimes he resented the idea of living in a shadow of a man not so bigger than him, only because he himself was born second, not first. But those moments were rare and far inbetween, as he could not blame anyone for the circumstances and was, all in all, quite contempt with the state of things as they were.

It was one of those moments, when she came to him.

He was sitting in his command tent, studying the maps again and again and yet not really seeing them. He was alone, shielded from the heavy, brutal rain and strong winds that had taken hold of the land the last days by the heavy tent fabric, yet not from the loud voices and the howling of the storm.

His men were uneasy, unsettled by the strange weather and their mood bad from having to sleep in wet clothes and not being dry for days. At least the heavy storms several days ago had been the worst and the weather was improving, if only a bit. It was late at night on that day, after Kevan had to deal with a single deserter, a few slips in discipline and a drunken brawl, when she came to him.

"Are you my king?"

Alarmed by the voice, the voice of a woman, he turned around and pulled out the dagger he had at his belt. His eyes got wide when he saw her. A woman of slender, slim limbs and skin as white as pure as snow. Yet her long, dark hair was wet and clinging to her body, like her simple blue gown did.

"How did you get in here?", he asked, his voice tight and his eyes narrowed. He wasn't nervous, only a bit surprised, because what did he had to fear from a small thing like her? She was obviously confused and rather harmless, because she looked at him with big, blue eyes in wonder.

Again she asked: "Are you my king? The King of the Hills?"

"Stop babbling this nonsense woman", he answered with a scoff and put away his dagger. "Now leave and I will not have you hanged."

"... are you not the King of the Hills?"

With a groan he stepped forward and grabbed her arm. It would have been easier to just call his guards, but he was well and fit enough to deal with a young confused girl, he had no illusions about that. Only that she wasn't one.

"You are not my king!!"

When his guards stormed in moments later when they heard trashing they only found their lord falling to the ground, spitting water from his mouth and grabbing for air like a man drowning. He died minutes later.

-

When she appeared for the third time it was the first day not troubled by strong winds and the sun shining again for weeks. Riverrun stood tall and proud, it's sandstone walls still not penetrated by any attacker, it's towers tall and imposing, as if the castle itself was yelling taunts at the Lannister soldiers.

With the death of Lord Lannister his second in command, Lord Serret, has taken over and ordered the hanging of several prisoners immediately. Edmure Tully had been forced to watch this act of cruelty done only because of revenge, though the men who had died had nothing to do with it. And while he was angry with the man, he was more angry with himself for letting these men getting captured in the first place.

Being a prisoner, even one of high birth, gave one a lot of time to think, especially about the mistakes made by oneself. And of mistakes he had a lot. Perhaps it was the knowledge of being a man falling short of expectations, not being able to stand up to his father and only being a medicore strategist, perhaps it was the knowledge of having thrown away most of his time and wasting it with jovial matters such as drinking and enjoying the attention of the women. Whatever exactly the reason, he was in a bad mood when she came to him.

One moment he was alone, the next she stood before him, having appeared when he had rested his eyes for a few seconds. 

"Are you my king?"

Her voice was sweet as honey and her eyes wide with wonder and curiosity. And she was a beauty with deep, deep blue eyes impossible big, pure skin that reminded him of a fresh apple, dark hair that clung to her body as did her simple blue dress. She was, without exaggeration, the most beautiful maid he had ever lays eyes upon, a heart shaped face, a slender body and an aura of grace and beauty about her that outshone any other he had ever seen before.

For a few seconds he just stared at her, before he shook his head. "No", he answere with a sad smile. "I am the heir to Riverrun, Edmure Tully. Which king are you looking for?"

It was a stupid question, there was only one king, the King on the Iron Throne, and yet he had decided to humor her. Everything to make her stay longer in this lonely tent of his.

Her eyes were cast down when she answered: "The King of the Hills. No one knows where he is."

The King of the Hills? There was no king like that, not anymore. And even then, there had only been the King of the Rivers and Hills, before the Ironborn came and had killed the last of them, the last ruler of house Mudd. And he told her so. "There is no King of the Hills, no longer. The last King of the Rivers and Hills died when the Storm Kings came and took the Riverlands from them."

For a long moment she just stared at him in wonder and something akin to depression, before sighing. "So... there is no King of the Hills no longer?"

"No, there is no King of the Hills." He managed a pained expression, despite this strange conversation. But who was he to send away a beautiful maid as her, not entertaining her by not playing along? "But there is the Lord Protector of the Riverlands, the Lord of the Trident."

She looked up again, something that could have been hope in her eyes. "Is he... like a king?"

"Ummm... he serves the King on the Iron Throne..." He stumbled over his own words, because that wasn't true any longer. Not really at least, because his fathers forces and he himself where actually fighting against the kings men. Men who raped and burned in the Riverlands, who slaughtered and killed their people. "... at least, he did. Now we fight him."

She giggled, like a small girl would do. Huddling closer to him she knelt down in front of him, as if she was listening to a story he was telling. "Are you the Lord? Do you fight the Iron King? Protect the people of the Rivers and the land of the Hills?"

"No. Not yet. My father is the Lord Protector, though I am his heir." And as much as it pained him to say so, he did not believe his father would remain Lord Protector much longer, his age was catching up to the stubborn old man. The idea of stepping up and taking the mantle of Lord of Riverrun... it scared him, more than any battle he had ever faced. "And... And yes, I protect the land and it's people. At least I did so before I was captured."

With a happy expression on her face she clapped her hands in elation. "Then you are to be my king. My King of the Hills."

Though strange as it was, the idea of him being a king, if only to a young woman, was quite entertaining to Edmure. "And who may I ask are you my lady? Are you the Queen of the Hills?"

"No", she answered with a big grin. "I am the Queen of the Rivers. I am the Rivers."

Then she kissed him. Her lips were wet and fresh like the water of a small stream on a sunny summer day.

-

At first he thought her moody, as whenever she visited him, and she did it often, she would act different. Sometimes she was childish and giggling and smiling all the time, laughing and babbling like a young girl, while on other days she would be gruff and silent and talk only in one word sentences. He needed some time, more than two weeks, before he understood that her behaviour was always mirrored by the weather. Soon he realized he would not like to see her on a stormy day.

There was something about her that scared him and the longer he thought about it, the more he could not explain it. Perhaps it was her deep, big blue eyes in which he could get lost if he did not treat carefully, perhaps it was her talk about old, forgotten times like they were yesterday, perhaps that she was wet even on sunny days, or perhaps it was that no one seemed to notice her arriving in his tent. And perhaps it was also the fact that she just appeared every few days, as if she just grew out of the earth, before vanishing into thin air when he did not look.

And while she was most likely the most beautiful woman he had ever layed eyes upon, he could not think of her in any other way than as a pure, virginal maiden. Though her dress hid not much, he felt dirty and like a monster every time he tried to imagine her dressed in less. It was... confusing. She was confusing.

He was looking forward to her visits more and more, as she was not only better company than Lord Serrett, who came to see him every other day or ordering him to dinner, but also because he had to admit to himself that he was drawn to her. Not like he had felt drawn to any other woman, not at all, more like he felt some sort of kinship with her. It wasn't unlike the feelings he had for his sisters, or to be more precise his sister Catelyn, but perhaps even deeper.

Finally, after several weeks of being imrpisoned, he was awoken one night by screaming and the smell of fire. His instincts kicked in and he was awake immediately, being wide awake in seconds and grabbing for his sword... which of course wasn't there, but he had forgotten about that. Cursing himself he got up and slipped on a tunic, a fresh one, when the tent opening was already pushed to the side and several Lannister soldiers in heavy armor stepped in.

"Lord Tully, come with us. Don't make any sudden movements, or we will use force!", the leader of them said in a tone that made it clear that he was to be obeyed. Edmure ground his teeth but did as ordered, knowing that no one would be helped by it if he fought four armed men with only his fists. His hands were put in handcuffs and then he was pushed out of the tent into the night, were he was immediately confronted with the screaming of men, the blowing of trumpets and the crackling of fires.

Roughly he was forced into a jog, brought to the tent of Lord Serrett, who was only half dressed in his armor and holding his sword in one hand. "Lord Tully, I'm sorry but it seems we have to use you as a sort of hostage. I regret to do this, but we have no other choice."

"... what?" He was pushed to the ground before he could respond, a sword at his neck. "You can't do this! YOU CAN'T!!!"

Obviously they did not care, as he only got a mailed fist to the face as answer, nearly breaking his nose. What was happening? Who was attacking the Lannister forces? Obviously it was someone trying to free Riverrun, most likely Lord Robb or perhaps his uncle Brynden, or perhaps even both. What was going on here?

Whatever it was, it was putting his life at risk, as he was now a shield for the Westerland commander to use. While around him men were screaming and yelling and confusion was being replaced by panic, he began to sweat. The blade at his neck cut into his skin and his head still hurt from the hit of the mailed gauntlet, reminding him of his dire situation. As if that was necessary.

"When the enemy reaches this position...", Lord Serret began to say as his squire fastened the cloak to his armor. "... kill him."

"Yes my Lord."

Edmures heart began to race. How could this be the end? Was this the end? Cursing his bad luck, and his own recklesness that had brought him into this position, he felt like screaming and kicking and lashing out. And then, suddenly, there was the taste of fresh spring water on his lips and the feeling of wet leather in his hands. The weight of a blade was in his hand and acting purely on instinct he whirled around, just as his guards were gasping in surprise and confusion.

Though he was still hindered by the handcuffs he still managed to injure one of the men with the blade in his hand. A slender, beautiful blade made of green and blue metal, wet like it just came from the deep of the river, impossible light for a weapon of it's size. He had no idea how he came to that conclusion, but he just knew that this sword was meant for him and him alone, it belonged to him like the fish to the water and the birds to the sky.

With his hand still clapped in handcuffs fighting efectively was impossible, especially after the lannister men had shoven their confusion to the side and ganged up on him, not with the intent on killing but seizing him. He did the only sensible thing in that situation: He turned tail and fled.

Not hindered by armor and well rested he was faster than them and in the confusion of the battle he tried to lose them, yet he was still in great danger, perhaps even more than before. He managed to hold of a single lannister soldier who had not realized who he was and kill him by piercing his side before hurrying on, dodging fires and wild arrows and once even a stray dagger. He killed several other men and injured even more, not even really looking when he cut down a man who just stumbled from his tent in only his breeches.

In the chaos Edmure had no idea where he was and he could also not take a second to take a look, it was just to dangerous, so he just kept on running into a random direction and did it as if his life dependet on it. Which it did. Suddenly there were no more tents on his sides and a second later there was also no nore ground under his feet and he fell into the water of the river. In the darkness he had not seen it and before he could understand what was happening he was pulled under the surface by strong, slender arms and embrace by a soft, graceful body.

-

When he was found it was day already and the men had to look twice before they recognized him. With his beard and hair entangled with seagrass, his clothing dirty and wet and his face tired and yet content he did not look like a lord, not even like a minor noble. Yet his red hair was rather unique and they brought him to Riverrun while informing him of what has happened.

His uncle, Brynden Tully, had come down from the Vale and led a force of several thousand riverland men to free Riverrun, together with his nephew Robb Stark who had come from the north with his host of wild northerners. By the tone the men spoke of the northerners Edmure got the impression that there was more to the story than they were willing to tale, yet they refused any information when he asked and just said that he should look for his own.

When he arrived at the castle of his family he barely had the strength to dismount and as he touched the ground his legs were threatening to give out under him, yet he remained standing if only barely. And before he could realize what was happening he was embraced by a woman who looked and smelled like his sister Catelyn, but was older and more graceful and... He needed a moment to realize that it was his sister, that she had just gotten older. Like him.

She released him and looked at him with worry in her eyes but a smile that seemed to brighten the rather grey day. But there was also somethin... sad about her. He noticed that something was wrong and that feeling got stronger when his uncle Brnyden, also known as the Blackfish, stepped up to them.

"It's good your alive boy... Lord Tully."

The way he said it... a very bad feeling overcame him.


	5. Tyrion Lannister: Against a flood wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war rages across Westeros and in King's Landing things are turning for the worse.

They were starving. Live had never been easy for them, but sine the Change, as some had begun to call it, had come live had only become more difficult. Everything was too small suddenly, tools, clothing and furniture. The weather was brutal, storms and hail and blizzards plaguing the land and when no water was coming down from the heavens then thick mist was laying over everything. The land, barren and harsh as it was, had now turned into a nightmare of dangerous predators, sudden pittraps and rocky cliffs, even more deadly than thought even in the worst hours of madmen.

But the worst problem was the food. The weather had destroyed half of the harvest which was meagre anyway because of the barren land and the fish in the ocean remained there because no one had any tools to catch them. Or some massive ocean beast snagged a daring fisher right from the coast, just plugging them like a ripe fruit. The food stores, meant to hold out for months and years to come, were emptied at an alarming rate and most likely to hold out for only a month longer.

And her father did not see the problem. He just made plans to rise up again, calling the banners and attacking the greenlands. Did he refused to see it? Or was he really that blind? Had the Change taken what was left of his sanity?

She did not know. All she knew was, that they needed help. Fast. And while it had never been their way to ask for help, hunger and an empty stomach are rather good motivators to overcome such prejeduices.

-

King's Landing had always been a terrible place to be, crammed and stinky and filled with horrible people. Tyrion Lannister had always liked it, not as much as he liked Lannisport, but enough to be a frequent visitor in the brothels of Littlefinger, damnable man that he was. When he had arrived in the city as his father had ordered him to be the acting Hand of the King he had thought to find a nephew full of glee at his newfound power, a sister letting the little monster do what he likes and the smallfolk suffering. And of course the spitlickers and backstabbers at court who were always there. In truth it was much worse.

The first thing that had turned things around where his mountain men. Like the northerners, who had turned into some sort of wolf beasts with claws and fangs and pointy ears, they had changed. Several of his fathers commanders had tried to kill them on the spot, as this had happened shortly after the battle against the northerners distracting them, but luckily his father had intervened and just ordered him to take them with him as soon as possible.

So he were not only traveling with a small band of lannister knights, Bronn, the sellsword who he had promised a lordship and mpore gold than he could carry, and the bedwarmer named Shae, but also with a big group of stinky, hairy and beastial mountain men. But while the men of the north now resembled human with aspects of wolfs, the feet of his friends, if you could call them that, had turned into hooves, small horns had sprouted at their heads and turned into something akin to goatpeople. Though more people than goat, he did not have the feeling most would see it that way.

He was right.

As soon as he and his small host were at the towns gate an angry mob was appearing, led by a man in dirty septon robes. The goldcloaks had their hands full with them and he himself had his hands full with keeping his now horned men in check, as they were all to ready to sharpen their steel at the bodies of some peasants.

„MONSTERS!!!“

„BURN IN THE SEVEN HELLS!!!“

Those were only a few of the obsceneties yelled at them and they were soon followed by stones and rotten vegetables. He urged his men to go faster and snarled slightly at the direction of the still yelling septon, when a big stone hit Shagga, one of the leaders of the mountain men, against the head, sending him stumbling to the ground. Then everything was off.

With a snarl and blank steel the mountain clans pushed into the mob of people, shoving the gold cloaks to the side as if they were not there at all. In a matter of seconds people were dead and the first idiots were fleeing in panic, while the fur clad savages mawed them down like a farmer would do it with weed.

Bronn and he had a lot of trouble reigning them in and barely managed to keep them from disembowling the septon, which would have made their position only more difficult. Hardly believable, as it already was rather problematic.

-

His nephew was busy watching a bloody fight of one fat fool of a knight against the hound, who was of course slaughtering him, when he arrived at the Red Keep. His betrothed, Sansa Stark, was nowhere to be seen and for a short second he felt a stab of panic because if his fool of a nephew had killed the girl than any hope for peace with the north was gone, before he reassured himself that not even foolish sister could have let something like this happen.

„Uncle“, the horrible boy said to him with a slight nod without ever taking the eyes of the fight in front of him. Fight was perhaps the wrong word for it, slaughter was a more appropiate description. The people watching it clapped politely and cheered half hearted and Tyrion did not miss the look of fear in their eyes when they send a glance into the direction of the royal pavillon. „Where is grandfather?“

„Your grace“, he said with a bow and then without asking for permission he took a glass from the small table next to Joffrey and poured himself a cup of wine. He needed it badly. „I'm sorry but Lord Tywin is unable to come to the capital at this moment, he is busy fighting the northern host in your name. He has send me in his stead.“

Joffrey was about to say something else to him but was interrupted by the sight of Clegane chopping off his opponents head. He cheered and grinned like a small child seeing a joust, finding it all too hillarious apparently. He congratulated his former sworn shield and promised him a boon, before finally turning back to Tyrion. „Then do what you must uncle. Welcome back to the capital.“

„As you command your grace“, the short lannister man returned and took a bow as it was expected of him, understanding it when he was dismissed. Together with Bronn and the leaders of his mountain men he left the improvised arena and made his way to his new chambers. His fathers chambers really, but that were details he did not care for the moment.

-

King's Landing was a giant mess on the scale of the desert of Dorne. As soon as he had moved into his new quarters he was swarmed with reports about unrest and fighting in the streets, calls for help from different subjects facing problems on their holdings and of course messenges from members of the small council.

He did trust neither Grandmaester Pycelle nor Littlefinger nor Varys, all of them were too shady for his taste and then there was of course the problem with his sister acting as regent. The current Commander of the Kingsguard, Jamie, was in the field and thus unable to attend council meetings and the commander of the Goldcloaks, a coward named Janos Flynt, had not been seen in the last two days. In short, he had a lot of work to do.

When he first arrived at the small council chamber he was met with Baelish looking smug and yet a bit dissheveled, Varys looking as mysterious as always and no one else. He had just sat down when Cersei arrived, her expression of noble disinterest maring her face as always, as if she thought everyone else below her. Which was, as he knew, the way it was. „Brother, what a pleasure seeing you.“

That was a blatant lie and every one, even the dumbest drunkard in a dimly lit tavern, could have told so. Her voice was dripping with disdain and hate, yet she kept her polite demeanor, the perfect politician. Or the perfect whore, it wasn't that much of a difference in Tyrions mind. „Thank you my dear sister, it is quite good being back in the civilisation after fighting a war. I admit I missed a comfortable bed and the comforts of living in a castle.“

Of course he had slept in a comfortable bed all the time, but he had to say something. „It seemes I am not made for war.“

„As we all are my friend“, Baelish added, his expression changing into a pleasant one. Gods he despised the man. „If I may say so, it is good having you back in King's Landing.“

„You mean it is good having back my coin.“

„Of course that is a side affect quite comfortable for all of us.“

Cersei only watched this exchange with a raised eyebrow and a cold demeanor, before sitting down at the end of the table, on the opposite of Tyrion. „Your companions brother.“ She said the word brother like it was an insult but he was used to it and just ignored it.

„They are quite the lively fellows, aren't they? I'm sure we will benefit from their combat experience and frightening appearance.“

„They must go“, she just informed him, like a fucking order. „Your stinking barbarians bring only more unrest and trouble, so they must go.“ In other words she wanted him not having his own private small army in the capital.

„We will need every weapon capable man we can get, there is no need to turn away men and women willing to fight for us.“ In truth he realized that her arguments, though not her real ones, were actually quite true. The smallfolk were frightened of his mountain clans and as heated as the atmosphere was such fear could easily turn into a frenzy. And an uprising in King's Landing could end the war sooner than any enemy army could do it if things would turn ugly. „Tell me Varys, what are your little bird telling you about our enemies?“

The bald eunuch gave him a sly smile, a tiny one, barely visible, before giving his report about the positions of the enemie hosts, as well as their strength and rumours he had heard. There were frightened smallfolk fleeing from the northern armies and whispers about them leading wolves and monsters into battle, turning into beasts and bringing storms and blizzards with them. Stannis had apparently amassed a mighty fleet and though he had lost a lot of them he had set sail to the Stormlands, most likely to deal with his younger brother Renly. And the former Lord of Storms End, now proclaiming himself King of the Seven Kingdoms, had made an alliance with the Tyrells. That was news to Tyrion, bad ones at that, and in his head he already made plans of how to avert an attack of such a powerful combined force. Because quite frankly if Renly would come out victorious against Stannis, and he had no illusions it would turn out that way, then he would have his way free to the Capital, the combined armies of the Stormlands and the Reach at his back. Not a promising thought.

„Lord Baelish, I know you have grown up with Lady Lysa Arryn, haven't you?“, he asked, though he already knew the answer.

„Indeed my Lord Hand“, the whoremaster and master of coin answered. Somehow something of his usual snide was missing from his voice. „I take it you want me to ask her of joining the war on our side? Wasn't she the one who sentenced you to death?“

„Yes, that was an ugly misunderstanding between us“, he admitted and he could not help it but he got the impression that Cersei seemed to think it sad that it was not an event which had cost him his life. „Yet I am willing to forgive her, if she is-“

The door to the council chambers were opened and a slender, young man in long flowing robes strode in as if he owned the place. He was not only handsome but actually beautiful and any maiden would have been envious of his perfect skin, shining golden hair and startling bright eyes, as well as his perfect and slim face. And he was not only dressed in the robes of a maester, he also wore the chain of grand maester Pycelle around his frame. „I am incredebly sorry to have missed the beginning of the council meeting, but Prince Tommen is as you know sick and I had to attend to him. Do not worry your grace, it is only a stomach ache and he will be back to full health in a few days.“

His voice was melodic and, again, beautiful and for several seconds Tyrion could only stare at him. He needed a few moments to make the connection and had to watch his fellow council members to confirm his suspicion. „Grand Maester Pycelle?“

„Ahhh, Lord Lannister, it is good seeing you“, the young man that was apparently Pycelle bowed in a smooth movement, as he could not have done it in all his life. „And yes, it is me, Pycelle. It seemed the events which had shaken the realm in the last days have left not even me unscratched. But I can assure you, I am still me, a loyal retainer of the crown.“

Things were turning more and more crazy. Perhaps it was time to find out what exactly had happened several weeks ago, a task he had meant to ignore for as long as possible.

-

With a deep sigh Tyrion let himself sink back in the high chair, in which he felt lost like drifting in the narrow sea, and wished for a miracle. The North had apparently turned into a realm of monsters, if his suspicion was correct. Every man, women, child and elder of northern descendant had somehow gotten turned into man-beasts and while a lot of them who were found south of the Neck were killed by frightened mobs, the northern host itself was now all but undefeatable in open battle. Because everyone was afraid of them, for the time being at least. Even the young Sansa Stark, who he had met in Winterfell before he had traveled to the Wall and she with her father to King's Landing, was imprisoned in her chambers with a small unit of guards at her doors at all times.

Everywhere in the realm things had turned chaotic. Sightings of strange creatures were reported, here and there whole villages had vanished or were found deserted, some people vanished and others, like Pycelle and of course the northerners, were turned into something else. Varys had even brought a rumour about walking, speaking trees in the Kingswood to his ears, yet he could not bring himself to believe it. Contact to the Iron Islands was lost all together and storms were still raging in the Ironmen Bay, making sea travel nearly impossible. Dorne, the Vale, the Reach, everywhere it seemed as if magic had come to life and legends were awoken as if they had just slumbered and waited.

„Why could not I have been turned into a tall and handsome knight?“, he asked out loud. An answer, or something alike, was whispered into his ear and he whipped around. But he was alone in his study, Bronn and his new squire Podrick, a good yet nervous fellow, had left hours ago, the first of boredom, the second because he was dismissed. Even Shae had come only for a short visit and then returned to his chambers.

So why...

He must be too tired he told himself, it was late at night and he had spend the last days sorting out the mess that was now the realm. Or, to be more precise, he had begun doing it. Deciding that it was time for a goblet of wine, a big one, and the warmth of a nubile body next to his he returned to his chambers. And although he tried to shake it, he still had the feeling as if he was watched and followed by someone... or someone.

-

„Whereever you are, I know you are there“, he finally snapped. He was being watched, he was sure of it. It was to be expected, the new Hand of the King, even if only the acting one, was a person of interest to the realm and spies were most likely all over him. Yet this was more than the usual amount of secrecy, there was always this tingling in his neck, as if someone was standing directly behind him. There were shadows moving in the corner of his eyes, most of the times when he was alone, but whenever he looked no one was there.

He was on his way from the council chambers back to his quarters, tired after a long debate with Cersei who just ordered the smallfolk to be put down by force for even speaking against the king. They had every right to be angry, as food was becoming sparse because of the war and the chaos and when this had been brought to Joffreys attention all he had said had been: „They have no bread? Well, then they should eat cake.“ It was a cruel joke, but no one had laughed, not really.

The people were angry, there was still no sign of Janos Slynt and the city was becoming dangerous. He had thought about sending Myrcella somewhere safe, or at least safer, like Dorne, but Cersei was so set against him that he could not think of her as agreeing to that. And now he was followed again, he was sure of it.

Three weeks into his stay at King's Landing and he had already lost the end of his patience. If it was always like this, he told himself, it was no wonder that the Hand of the King was replaced so often. 

For a few moments Tyrion waited for someone to step forward, but nothing happened. Then, as he was about to turn around and stomp back to his bed where Shae was hopefully waiting for him, someone came into view. Or, to be more precise, something.

Tyrion became white as a sheet as he realized what he saw exactly, as his brain registered what it was that came into his direction. It was a man and yet not a man, dressed in bloody clothes and parts of dirty armor, on his head a broke crown that tore into his skin. The frame of the body was... he could not describe it, not even really grasp it, because he saw a fat, bloated corpse as well as a trim, broad shouldered warrior, both at once. And the eyes...

He willed his short legs to move and as the ghostly image of Robert Baratheon, pulling his dirty and bloodied hammer behind him, descendend slowly upon him he finally managed to run.

-

The longer he stood in the capital, the more things he saw, and heard, that no one else could. Ghosts, images of things and people long gone, echoes of a time past, haunting the halls of the Red Keep. Men and women, children and elders, they all alike were there, everywhere, appearing out of nowhere and driving him nearly insane. There was no solitude in his bed, as the ghostly images of Ned Stark, Jon Arryn, Elia Martell and all those others were burned into his mind and did not leave him alone at any times.

He had a choice of becoming insane, and he was on the way to it, or dealing with it somehow. When he saw Joffrey laughing madly while watching a man beaten to death and something akin to an old man with long fingernails and dirty hair cackling with him, he decided that becoming mad was not an option. No, he had to do something.

At first he prayed. Then, when this did not help, he tried to ignore it and go on as if nothing extraordinary was happening, burying himself in work and at night in the company of Shae. For a while this helped, but when things began to turn ugly, truly ugly, it became only worse.

Stannis had slain his brother and the Tyrells and the Stormlords had flocked to him, some said. Renly Baratheon had been turned into a stag and killed by ghostly hunting dogs. The two brothers had made peace and forged an alliance. A white stag had appeared and forced the two brothers to put aside their differences. Margaery Tyrell, the bride of Renly, had smiled at Stannis and molten his heart.

The rumours were many and somewhere buried in them seemed to be the truth, but he had neither the time nor the patience to find out what of it was the truth. All he knew was, that now a mighty host of Baratheon AND Tyrell forces were on their way to King's Landing by land and sea. There were also the problems with his father fighting against the young wolf, as Robb Stark was by now called, and the smallfolk being hungry.

Bronn, as the new commader of the Goldcloaks, had his hands full with keeping the peace as it was and more often than not he had to resort to violence, even if he detested the idea of killing unarmed men and women. Especially the women. Varys was no help at all because his little birds were telling him nothing, Baelish had so far not returned from the south, he was most likely a prisoner by now, and his sister seemed to find delight in ripping messages and hindering his efforts at fighting a war.

Perhaps it was all this, combined with all the bitternes in his heart from being born a dwarf, from being hated by his own father, from being ridiculed and laughed at. He felt like a man trying to fight a flood wave with only his tiny fists, a losing battle against the whole world which was only laughing at his plight. Whatever the cause, one evening not long before the Barathon host was thought to arrive, he just took all this papers and books at his desk and threw them across the room. He took the wine goblets and smashed them against the walls, he yelled and he screamed at his frustration and his inability to do anything.

„Hear me roar indeed, little lion man“, a soft voice spoke, more of a whisper of wind. There was something with him in the room and though he had trained himself to ignore this, he could not help but to look for it. Slowly, as if struggling to keep substance, a figure emerged from the back of his solar. It was a woman, only half there, her features lovely and though her body seemed to consist of wind and mist, he could make out her face and her... sad smile?

Now even ghosts were moking him it seemed, as if he did not happen enough with the living. And yet he could not take his eyes from her face, as if he recognized her somehow. He needed a few seconds before his brain made the connection between this woman and the portrait he had seen in Casterly Rock. „... mother?“


	6. Theon Greyjoy: Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iron Islands have changed... but perhaps not as much as Theon Greyjoy had done since he had left Pyke.

The Wolfswood was alive with things not seen in the world for generations. Large packs of wolves of immense size prowled through the dark shadows, the trails of beasts not possible were found, ways known to huntsmen and poachers for hundreds of years were suddenly twisted and turned in odd places, clearings appeared were none had been before. It was happening all over the north, but the Wolfswood was worst.

Bran Stark, acting Lord of Winterfell, felt alone. With only Osha and maester Luwin there he felt abandonded by his family, even when he knew that it was not the case. His father was dead, executed for a treason he did not commit. His mother was in the south with his oldest brother, fighting a war to avenge her husband and save her daughters. Sansa and Arya, his sisters, either still in enemy hands or dead already. He shuddered at the thought of them being killed for turning.

He had read letters from all over the north, understanding that people turning into things barely human had not only happened to Winterfell but everywhere. People were confused and frightened, praying for forgiveness for their sins or leadership in these dark times. Together with Luwin he had sorted through all these letters and messanges and stories of the smallfolk, until finally understanding that only those of the north turned. A merchant from Wintertown and his family haid remained as they were and they were from the Riverlands.

Then there was of course the every day business he had to take care of, the disputes he had to settle, the stories he had to spend sitting on the Weirwoodthrone listening to the smallfolk telling him of their problems. But other than before the Change there was so much aggression in them, angry and furious a lot of them were, throwing insults and threats at each other and more often than not claws and fangs were readied for a fight. More than once his guards had to throw those men out.

And then... Rickon. Without his mother and father there his younger brother clung to him, when he could, and Osha at most times. But he was just so wild. He bit people who he did not like, he snarled and lunged with his tiny claws, he rode on Shaggydog around Wintertown and was chased by men trying to catch him. Just the day before Rodrik had told Bran about young Rickon falling on all fours while at training and then throwing himself at his enemy, like a wild animal. To be fair, it worked quite well.

Until now he had thought he could somehow reign him in, make him see reason and lessen his animal like tendencies a bit. That was before he stormed into the great hall sitting on the back of a big, muscular cat which had two long elongated fangs coming out of his snout. It was about the size of a pony and had well defined muscles under thick layers of white, brown spotted fur. "Look Bran, I found a kitty."

He did not knew whether to find this frightening or just confusing.

-

The letter found him at Riverrun, though it was originally send to Seaguard. He had been in the great hall of Riverrun, drinking and laughing and eating more than anyone else could ever hope to do, when a servant came to him and told him that the maester has a letter to him.

The men of the Riverlands were wary of their allies, the now rather bestial northmen. By now Robb and his bannermen had managed to reign their men in and though they still were wilder and a bit more aggressive than before they had learned to live with their newfound situation. Letters from home told of similar events in the north, every man and woman born of northern blood was now changed.

Lady Catelyn was still confused and perhaps even afraid of the things that had happened. It was a brave face she had put on every day, when she feasted together with her brother and her son and their bannermen, or when she just took a walk and met one of them. She was polite and a perfect lady at all times and Theon knew her enough to know that she was hiding behind the mask of politenes.

Her husband had died in King's Landing. Her daughters were still in the hands of the Lannisters. Her father had died under mysterious circumstances before she could see him a last time. And while this happened the whole world seemed to grow crazy around her. Her son was suddenly a man grown fighting a war and then suddenly not even a man anymore, not really. It was no wonder why she spend as little time with her son as possible, leaving feasts early, avoiding Robb at every opportunity.

Theon knew that it hurt him more than he allowed himself to show, but he could do nothing against it. For a few moments he had entertained the thoughts of throwing whores into his best friends direction, but then again was the boy, man, too honorable to do such a thing when he was bethrothed. Even if it was to a Frey.

Scoffing at the idea of his best friend marrying a weasel faced girl he took another sip from the small barrel that served as his tankard. Everything he used or was dressed in had to be specially made for him and thus his options relating clothing was rather limited, even though the ladies of Riverrun were doing their best. As was the blacksmith, a broad shouldered man named Jokken, and the massive iron club in the form of a sword forged for him was, if not of good quality, at least big enough to be wielded by him.

Would Lord Walder even want to marry one of his brood to the now changed Lord of Winterfell? Would any of these girls want to marry him? If they were any other family Theon would say no in a heartbeat, but the Freys were a power hungry, cold bunch and old Lord Walder had no problems marrying off one of his daughters or granddaughters to anyone. So, even if her husband to be would perhaps rip her apart in the wedding bed, what did he care?

The servant that informed him of the message was a frightened young boy, not older than twelve, and Theon scoffed at him just to see him hurry away. It was one of the few good things about being so massive and big, that people were afraid of him and easy to spook. Other than that he had to wear uncomfortable, simple clothes, like a peasant, could not lay with a woman because she would most likely pop open as soon as he would try to enter her and had to drink and eat alone because most were spooked of him. And him sitting at the high table like it was his rightful place was out of the question for the Riverlanders.

Emptying his tankard, barrel, he stood up and made his way up to the chambers of the Maester. It was his luck that the hallways were rather high, but doors were a real problem for him and every time he had to squeeze through them anew, cursing and grunting while doing so, scaring a few serving maidens away. The Maester himself, a half blind man old enough to have seen Lady Catelyns grandmother been born most likely, was one of the few not showing any fear while speaking with him, if only because he did not care anymore. About anything.

"A raven has arrived", he said with a weak, broken voice, reminding Theon of two rusted pieces of metal scrapping against each other. "It bears the sigil of the Kraken. And is adressed to you."

"Huh?" Strange. For years, since he had been taken from Pyke, no message has been come from his home. And he felt funny when thinking of Pyke as home, because he could barely remember what it looked like. Only the smell of salt and wet stone came to mind, but other than that there wasn't much to jog his memory. Why should his Lord Father write a message to him now? Perhaps to ask for an alliance with Robb against the Westerlands.

With a swift movement, swifter than his bulk would people let believe, he grapped the small message and enrolled it. Then his eyebrows, bushy and massive things, began to move upwards.

-

It was late in the night already and Robb was in the map room together with his uncle and granduncle as well as his most trusted bannermen when Theon arrived. He did not even knocked and waited to be let in, he just opened the door and stepped in, not caring for courtesies any longer. Why should he, he was now a big massive monster with horns and a hide as thick as leather, why should he give a shit any longer? And he was unnerved that he wasn't included in this meeting anyway.

"Theon", Robb said when looking up, giving Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, a gesture to remain calm as the old man was about to protest against this interruption. "What brings you here?"

For a second he wasn't sure how to respond. Sure, he knew what to say, but in what way? Should he be angry for not being part of this meeting, as he was the heir of the Iron Islands and thus it should be his right to be included in such important councils. But Robb was stressed out enough as it was and did not need another reason for headaches. So he just grunted once to show his bad mood, it came naturally to him, and gave Robb the small letter. "My sister the Lady Asha has send me a message. We might have a good opportunity at our hands."

Robbs eyes flew over the small letter and remained silent for a few moments, before he said: "Everyone leave. Except you Theon."

Edmure, LORD Edmure now, coughed and gave him a sharp look. The Lord of Winterfell had the decency to look abashed and for a few seconds there was a small change of gazes between the two, before Edmure turned around and left. But it was obvious that he was not ordered out of the room, but allowed Robb to use it, as it was in his castle and not the other way around. After a few seconds the other Lord followed, last Lady Cately but only after Robb urged her to do so and she gave Theon a warning glance when she stepped out of the room.

"Do you believe this message is reliable?", the young Lord of Winterfell asked as soon as the door was closed.

"She would not write such a thing if she had any other choice", Theon answered immediately. "My people are proud. They would not beg for such a thing if they had any other choice."

"But then why isn't this message from your father then, but your sister?"

He had feared that question and felt a small stab in the heart at the notice of his father. He could barely remember the man and yet the thought of him not sending a single notice to his remaining son, his heir, over all these years brought back a whole flood of unpleasant thoughts. He repressed a sigh and answered: "I do not know. Most likely he did not want to appear weak in front of the Lord of Winterfell. Or his own bannermen at that."

The answer was as good as any other and seemed to satisfy Robb, because he then said after several moments of thinking: "I will think about it and have an answer for you on the morrow. Until then, try to find some sleep."

-

In the end the problem wasn't getting Robb to agree to it, but the Riverlands. His best, and perhaps only, friend was rather excited about the idea of getting the Iron Islands as an ally in the War. The Riverlords were the ones who had to pay the bill, send the food, the wood, the iron and all the other ressources to the Islands, where they were desperately needed. Asha had not written why, only that her, and thus his, people were starving and on the brink of a civil war.

Lot's of Riverlords were more than reluncant of giving up any of their harvest because they had so little in the first place thanks to the war and, to be completely honest, even less when they heard that it was for the Iron Islands. Theon had to buy a lot of it and clenched his teeth everytime his honor as a Greyjoy was belittled, and it happened often, but he knew that killing the fool would not help him at all.

Though Lady Catelyn was against it, Theon was send to Pyke with not only a message from Robb, but also enough food, timber and iron to supply a town. Not enough, not really, but more was to follow. Hopefully.

When he arrived at Seaguard several guards tried to deny him entry, thanks to his appearance AND him being an Ironborn, and he was about to kill the fools when an officer smarter than the rest appeared and cleared things up. To say that the voayge itself was unpleasant would be an understatement, because not only was his cabin way too small for him, also did he wish more often than not for a female companion but the only one aviable was the captains daughter and she was not only afraid of him, but also not the most pretty one.

So he spend the first few days of the voyage on deck, watching the sailors do their duty and after two days of boredom he began to help. Such work was normally under him, but he was just so bored that he did not care any longer, he just needed something to do.

It was on the sixth day of their journey that the storms began. He remembered storms from when he was a child, watching the wild sea awakened like a beast and the sky a terrible cacophony of thunder, wind and death. Yet this was different, even if he could not say how. Waves the size of towers threw the fleet of ships around, strong winds ripped at the sails and the ropes and yet he did not feel at danger at any times.

The sailors around him prayed and asked for mercy from the gods, the captain even suggested to turn around, but Theon just punched him in the face. Because he needed to go home, because his people needed this damn food and nothing, not even a storm, would stop him from bringing it there. And there was also a part inside of him that told him that everything was alright, that he was an Ironborn and it was not his destiny to die from this weather.

He stood at deck, the rope of the main sail in hand and felt the urge to laugh when wave after wave crashed at the deck. His face, clothes, everything, was wet and he tasted salt and rock in his mouth. Cold, brutal winds tore at him and howled in his ears. And everything he thought was, that this was nearly as good as a good fuck or a good battle to get the blood pumping. He cried in excitment.

Though the men he sailed with declared him mad on top of being a monster, the fleet of twelve ships set anchor at Lordsport several days of stormy weater later. It was a wonder that none of the ships were destroyed and the men already whispered it must be because of Theon sailing with them. He was an Iron Islander, perhaps the strange creature with the horns knew magic that protected from death at the sea. He laughed at the idea but let them believe it.

-

Pyke was... smaller than he remembered. Perhaps it was true that in memory everything is bigger or perhaps he just saw things from a different perspective now, but compared to Winterfell or Riverrun the castle, and the island, were a sore sight. Still, when he set foot on land in Lordsport he was rather surprised to find a man, thing, in long dirty robes and long, salt crusted hair, waiting for him apparently.

The man, if he could say so, was taller than even he was, even if only a bit, and had as he did long, twisted horns on a broad, ugly head. Tusks just like him and hands now big enough to crush a mans head. "Theon", he mumbled and his voice seemed to come from deep beneath the sea, a grumbling, deep baritone.

Theon needed several moments to recognize the man, not only because he had changed, but also because he had not seen him in such a long time. "Uncle Aeron. It is good to be home." That was a lie, but a good one and he gave the drowned man, he recognized the robes, a smirk that showed rows of sharp teeth.

His uncle only gave him a curt nod and turned around, then he stepped away to make his way up to Pyke. Theon gave the captain the order to deload the food, then hurried after his priestly uncle.

He had many questions and Aeron had no answers, or if he did so, he did not tell, he just gave one word responses if at all and most of the time ignored him or just grunted. It was infuriating. Also was the fact that he had to walk and could not ride, but horses were to small to carry him anyway, and so he just took it in stride and wondered silently about how much had changed.

Theon remembered the Islands to be rough and wild, but not this rough. The cliffs were sharper and higher, the ocean was wilder, the land was even more barren. But he also saw small forests of strange, twisted trees and flocks of big, evil looking birds in the sky. Once or twice the road was interrupted by a sudden pitfall and they had to walk around it and if Aeron had not knew where they were, Theon would have walked directly into them and most likely fell to his death.

When they finally arrived at Pyke itself, after several hours of hard walking, he immediately noticed the poor state of everyone and everything. No wonder his people needed iron and timber, because like him everyone had turned into big, burly and horned creatures, too big for their clothes and tools. They were dressed in rags if at all, hungry and armed with weapons way to small for their now massive hands.

And with a small feeling of relieve he noticed that no one had as magnificient horns as he did, even if he did not know why he thought so. Why should he feel happy about horns? Perhaps it was only his ego reminding him that he was still handsome. And everyone he saw, except his uncle, had only one pair of horns while he had two. Four perfectly formed and curled horns like those of a ram.

"You know the way to your fathers solar." It was not a question that his uncle told him but more of a command and for a second Theon felt tempted to put him in his place, to make it clear that the heir of the Iron Islands is not to be commanded around by a priest. But then he let it be, because what was it good for? He just clenched his teeth and nodded once, but Aeron did already not see it anymore, as he had already turned away and abandonded him he was a mere messenger.

Swallowing his pride, it tasted rather bile, Theon gave him a last look before making his way through the dark, gloomy hallways of Pyke. Like he remembered them they smelt of mold, salt and old dust and were in a rather bad shape. But then again, had they ever been in a good one? He passed several hallways and rooms he remembered from his childhood, even if only barely, and finaly found himself in front of the room that was his fathers solar. The last time he had been here his father has been a king and he a prince, the youngest of three sons. Now he was the only remaining one and for a second Theon allowed himself to wonder how the Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands would react to him returning home.

Though he hoped for joy and pride, he somehow could not bring himself to imagine his father as showing any such emotions. And while he had told Robb that he would listen to him, he always had doubts about that himself. But he was interrupted in his thoughts by a female, if rough, voice.

"Look at that, the prodigal son returns." It was a young woman, at least he thought her young, that spoke to him. Like most people on Pyke he had seen she was dressed in some sort of rags, but hers looked at least a bit better, as if someone without skill had tried his best to make it look presentable. She was smaller and slimer than him, if only marginaly, and her head was adorned by four straight, pointy horns.

"He does", he answered with a broad smirk while not forgetting the mocking tone in the strangers voice. "And he has brought with him food, iron, timber and fabric."

"So perhaps we should fall to our knees and bow to you and proclaim you saviour of the Islands?"

He snarled at her. "I can also just sail back again and take everything with me, so shut up or say something of worth. Otherwise, I have business to attend to, my father awaits me."

She only scoffed at that. "No, father does not await you, he said he has no wish of seeing you."

Father? Wait a moment. He stared at her, before he exclaimed with surprise in his voice: "Asha?!"

The smug grin he wore so often himself was now placed on her features and she gave him a mocking bow. "At your service, little brother."

She did not look like the gangly girl he remembered. Back then she was all wild mop of hair and scrapped knees. But to be fair, no one would recognize him either, not since he had changed into this new form. Then he spat: "If you just wanted to mock me, you could have spared me a lot of trouble. I had to bow and beg for these supplies you know, promising money and paying for the rest from borrowed money."

Instead of taken aback she just rolled with the eyes. "Relax little brother. I am just ruffling your feathers... or horns if you like that better." Then she added: "Come, we have a lot to talk about."

-

It was evening before Theon changed words with his father for the first time in nearly ten years. After meeting his sister and a very strange welcome from her, hidden behind her mocking and arrogant tone was some sort of thanks he thought to hear out, she had informed him about the situation on the islands and he her about what was happening on the greenlands. People were starving and unable to feed their children in some cases. The local wildlife had turned dangerous over night and without proper weapons and armor the Ironborn were not able to defend themselves or hunt these beasts. Their ships were suddenly to small for them and they did not have the wood to modify them effectively, neither did they have the iron needed to build new tools and weapons.

All things Theon had brought with him, if only enought to help a bit. But they needed more, much more, to get back on their feet again and Asha knew that their father would never swallow his pride to ask for help. He would rather see half his people die than to dishonor himself and beg for scraps from the rich houses table, at least that would be as what he would see it himself.

"He will not welcome you back with open arms little brother", she had told him honestly. "He has given you up the day the old wolf has taken you with him to the North. You are heir in name only, and even that barely."

Those news had been a punch to the gut's to him, so he had clenched his teeth and his eyes had darkened, ready to pounce on her. Yet he did not, he just took it all in an nodded, thinking to himself that he would see on the welcoming feast.

It was a long walk he had to take to reach the great hall, as his quarters were near the base of the Sea Tower. He had to cross three bridges to reach the Great Keep and thanks to the heavy rain and wind he was cold, wet and miserable when he arrived. When he reached the Great Hall of Pyke, where the Seastone chair stood, he needed a moment to take it all in. The benches and tables were pressed with Ironborn, all of them big, of massive size and horned. It was a scene like he had heard it in the stories of his childhood, when the world had still been full of magic for him. Well, it seemed now it was really that way.

No one gave him any notice when he arrived, people were laughing and eating and talking, rough and brutal as he remembered it to be. Only even more intimidating, as now they were no mere men. He needed a word to describe them. Perhaps just Ironborn, as it seemed every man and woman of te Iron Islands had changed in that way and were thus easily to identify as such.

Shoving this thoughts to the side he made his way to the great table, right where he remembered it to be from his childhood, even if it was now bigger and rougher. When he was near enough to see he nearly stopped when he saw his father, miserable looking, grey haired monstrosity with two magnificient pairs of horns, as well as dark, piercing eyes. And to his right, where by any right Theon should have set, Asha was sitting. So it was true then.

With fury he did not know he had in his stomach and purpose in he steps he stood opposite his father.

"Father."

Balon looked up from his meat, meat Theon had brought, and looked him up and down, not even trying to his his sneere. He had aged, apparently, but was still an imposing warrior, even compared to all these other Ironborn around them. The wrinkles on his forehead appeared to be armor and his now broad, solid jaw seemed strong enough to crack rock. Finally he just said: "Theon." And then he returned to his meat, not bothering with him any longer.

Snarling Theon send a single look to Asha, who just returned it with something akeen to the words: I have warned you. Perhaps he should have let it slide, as it was apparent that his father had no desire to deal with him. But Theon was not known for making smart decisions, not proper ones either.

"Go and sit down where I don't have to look at you any longer", Balon then said without looking up, his mouth still full with meat.

"I return to you after nearly ten years and that is all you have to say to me?", the younger Greyjoy asked with malice and anger in his voice.

Several men able to hear stopped whatever they were doing and turned to look at him, as if they have just now noticed him. His father slowly looked up to him, before spitting out. "You come here, dressed like a whore, talking like a northern shit and demand to be welcomed like a reaver after taking salt wives and plunder?", he gave back. "Tell me, was it Lord Starks pleasure making you his daughter?"

To be fair Theon was not dressed even half as good as he would have prefered, but compared to anyone in this room he did indeed look like a king. With a growl he answered: "If it weren't for me you would still go hungry!"

"And have you paid the Iron Price for it?", his father mocked with a sneer in his voice, already knowing the answer.

"When should I have done that?! Under the nose of Lord Stark or under that of his son and his bannermen?! That would have been not only foolish but deadly!!" It was an offense punishable by severe beating to yell at your Lord, but he did not care anymore. He was just so angry and disappointed and furious that he did not give a single shit anymore.

"You have forgotten the Old Ways, boy!! You are a disgrace!!!"

"YOU HAVE NEVER TOUGHT ME THEM!!! YOU GAVE ME AWAY LIKE A DOG NO LONGER WANTED!!!"

"AND I SHOULD HAVE DONE THAT SOONER!!! I SHOULD HAVE DROWNED YOU THE DAY YOU WERE BORN!!!"

By now the entire hall was silent, except for them, and watched them screaming at each other. Thus everyone saw it when Theon jumped over the table and flew at his father, all fury and bloodlust on his face.

-

"You have impressed them", Asha later told him. Later being three days after the incident, with him sitting behind bars in a damp, cold cell chained to the wall, only wearing his torn breeches. He had no real memory what had happened after he had launched himself across the table at his father, everything was a haze of pain, red rage and flesh hitting flesh, bones breaking and yelling. Then he woke up in the cell, his hands chained to the wall, his left arm dislocated.

Theon scoffed and hissed at the numb pain that shot through his left side. "Then why am I in the prison cells? Shouldn't they hail me as their saviour?", he mocked through gritted teeth, not bothering anymore to hide his bitternes. What a glorious return home, wasn't it?

"They have needed four men to pull you from father... and even then you have not stopped fighting them." She said it as if it was a good thing and perhaps that it was. He did not answer but just stared at the wall with contempt and hurt pride in his eyes. Asha watched him several moments, before she sighed and then said to him: "Father has made plans to attack the North."

Now he looked up in surprise. "What?!"

"I know, it is more than just foolish", she gave back before he could protest. "His pride is hurt and he wants to right the wrong that the world has done to him."

"Him?! HIM?!!!", Theon exclaimed and began to pull at his chains, again only letting numb pain shooting through his left side, but he did not care. "HE WAS A FUCKING FOOL!!! TAKING ON THE ENTIRE REALM!!! THAT ASSHOLE!!! HE IS LUCKY TO STILL HAVE HIS HEAD!!! I WAS THE ONE TO BE PUNISHED!!! ME AND MARON AND RODRIK!!!"

His sister let him yell and rage, knowing that it would be senseless to call him out on it. So she just waited for him to calm down, wich he only did because he became tired. And that took quite a bit of time. Finally, when he sat there huffing and puffing and hot tears burning in the corners of his eyes, she just answered: "I know. We would have nothing from attacking the North, only hazels and walnuts. But what we need is food, gold and fabric. But father refuses to see that, he has only eyes for his revenge against the Old Wolf for taking his last son and shaming him, even if he is dead already."

"He was never much of a father", the younger Greyjoy said silently without looking at her. "The only man who ever was a father to me is now dead, killed by a boy king who isn't even old enought to know where to put his cock."

"Then you will be happy to know, that father will most likely not reign for much longer", she suddenly informed him and knelt down to his level. "You have beaten him so hard and brutal that he is bedridden. And he refuses to let the Maester see him, not trusting him, saying he would only poison him." A short pause, then she said: "I will try to keep things running and our people back onto their feet."

"What will happen to me?", he asked her after letting it all sink in, still not looking at her. She did not need to tell him that he would be in an incredibely bad position if their father died from the beating he took. And there were few crimes worse than kinslaying on the Iron Islands, killing his liege lord one of them. Which he would have done kind of too.

"I don't know", she answered truthfully and then she remained silent. For several minutes the two of them were just content with being in each others company, no need to say more words. He, the lost son who never really had a chance at luck in life, and she, the daughter forced to take up the mantle of heir and son, just keeping silent and waiting. Kind of. For what they did not know, but they did so.

It was that moment that Theon wished himself back to Winterfell, back when things were easy. He the ward and best friend of Robb, joking and laughing and dreaming about women, glory and their roles in life. He had never been able to really appreciate it, always feeling like he was the outsider. But now he was back where his home was supposed to be and he felt even more like an outsider than he ever did in Winterfell.

It would take another ten days before he would be brought out of the cell.


	7. Arya Stark: Winter is coming

Too say that Sandor Clegane was confused was putting it mildly. Standing att attention while Joffrey was busy shooting crossbowbolts at an defenseless little hare was not very entertaining, but he had his duties and fullfilled them. And this specific one gave the opportunity to think about the events of the last weeks and the current situation, something he usually tried to avoid by either fucking a whore or drinking himself into a stubbor.

The first strange event had taken place shortly after the news of the defeat at the Whispering Woods had reached court. Joffrey, little shit that he was, had decided to take his bad mood out at the little bird, calling her to the throne room and letting her been beaten by one of his King's Guard. Sandor was secretely thankful it has not been him being ordered to it, because he would have hated himself for doing so. The first slap she had taken with as much dignity as she could have mustered, but by the second one she was send to her knees screaming and wailing, much to the King's delight.

But then something happened which destroyed his amusement.

Before the eyes of the horrified court the little bird grew claws and fangs, screaming and crying while it happened. Ser Mandon Moore, another one of the reasons why Sandor did not have a high opinion of knights, had drawn his sword and was about to behead the girl when the Queen ordered him to stop and only maintain her. In the end they needed four man to do so, because she fought back like a wild child, her claws sharp and her kicks stronger than thought.

Now the little bird was contained to her new quarters, if you could call them that, in a tower, like one of these dumb bitches in the songs. That had of course onle been the beginning of it all. People growing claws and fangs, the Imp returning with his own army of goat men, Pycelle turning into a young and healthy and most of all handsome man bedding maiden after maiden and sometimes several in one night. Rumours of magic beasts roaming the land, of strange sights, of water dragons on the sea and wolves the size of horses in the woods.

And Joffrey was behaving even more eratic than usual. He laughed and yelled and screamed at times when nothing had happened, his face sometimes twisted in rage although one second ago he was perfectly calm. As calm as the little shit can be of course.

He needed a fucking whore and a strong wine. Perhaps the Imp would have some. He did hate the little bastard, but at least he had wine and knew a good whore when he saw one. And as Sandor was forced to remain inside the Red Keep, the King has ordered so, he had to make due with what he had at hands.

-

They came in the night. First there was the cold. Then there were the howls and the growling. And then there was death.

The first step outside the Mud Gate, out of King's Landing, had felt like a betrayal of everything she had ever believed in. Honor. Integrity. Family. Her father. Most of all her father. Now he was dead and she was running away from it, her hair short, her face dirty, her sister in the hands of Joffrey, the bastard. She had felt like crying and screaming and kicking and killing and all she did was bottling it up inside and keeping on walking.

A few days into their journey, and they had to travel slow because most of them had to walk and also because they had a cage on a cart with them, a sudden storm had hit them and before she had known what was happening she fell to the ground as if her strings had been cut, pain shooting through her entire body. Bones broke, her hands twisted and it had felt like rusty nails were hammered into her skull, before it was gone as sudden as it had come.

Yoren, the recruiter of the Nightswatch, had to threaten the other men not to do something to her or Gendry, the big stupid boy with the now strange eyes. Because like she had suddenly sharper senses and was stronger, not to forget the claws as Lommy had found out rather quick, he had eyes the colour of molten gold. From then on she had to watch her back, or at least she had felt like it had been necessary. The other men gave her looks as if they were trying to find out how much trouble she was worth. And if it wasn't easier just to kill her in her sleep. Thus she slept always with her back to the wall or tree if possible and more often than not Yoren was right next to her.

For a while she kept to herself, only talking with Hot Pie and Lommy and Gendry and even then only a few words, while she kept away from the others, feeling not welcome among them. There was also the fact that she had to keep secret that she was a girl and in a strange way these new events made it easier for them.

She had come back from taking a leak down a small stream when things happened To be honest she had been talking with Jarquen, one of the three men in the wheeled cage, when Gendry had interrupted her while walking past her. „Yoren had told us not to go near those three“, he had said without looking at her, his arms full with wood for the fire.

„They don't scare me“, she had protested, like she would have said to her big brother Robb. Or Jon. Or even Theon, even if he wasn't her brother.

„Then you're stupid“, he answered to that, the same tone Jon would have used. Perhaps a bit less friendly, but she could forgive that as he was one of the few still speaking to her. „They scare me.“

That had been the moment the Goldcloaks arrived, but not as she had thought to take her in, but Gendry. Several men already volunteered to hand him over, but again Yoren had took out his knife and made clear who was in charge, that these men were now under the juristication of the Nightswatch and thus no longer a concern for the Goldcloaks. The two men on horses retreated but promised to return with more men.

Why were the Goldcloaks interested in a simple blacksmith? Because of his funny eyes? Because he did look so much like Renly? Perhaps he was his bastard. As Arya had been laying in a small mill, trying to sleep but unable too, she could not help but to think about it. Was Gendry the bastard son of Renly Baratheon? He did have his looks, but he was too old for that, way too old. But what other options where there? No Goldcloak would be interested in hunting down a criminal that was already in the hands of the Nightswatch, they were happy about them taking their lawbreakers.

She had been interrupted in her thoughts by the sound of horses and men arriving. Many of them. Looking up and getting to her feet before anyone esle could even react she startled Yoren, who gave her a questioning look, before he too heard something and got up. „Get up you lot, up too your feet!!“

Then he had turned to her and said that she and Gendry should hide, because they were in greater danger from the soldiers than the others and though she wanted to protest, she did as ordered and slipped out of the back door together with Gendry.

There had been cursing and yelling and groaning but the men got up, even the ones who had been deep asleep only seconds ago. Outside several Lannister men had surrounded the mill, crossbows out and swords drawn, apparently ready for a fight but not awaiting one. Arya had seen from her hideout between some bushes that only one of the crossbows had been loaded, the others were only there for show, and the swords were held in a relaxed stance. Her eyes were sharp enough to see these details, even in the darkness, but she knew that those of the others were not.

And, she had also noticed, it was rather cold. Not as cold as she was used to, but colder than it should be. Her hair in the back of her neck stood up as she saw...

_Prey. Pack moving. Called._

She had blinked and felt how her head got dizzy, like back in Winterfell when the King had been there and she had sipped from the strong ale. What had that been? Shadows had danced in the corners of her eyes and she had to fight the urge to jump up and ran at the soldiers and kill them. She had been so angry, so damn angry and every fiber in her body had called for blood on her hands and her tongue.

Had those been her own thoughts? Her hands had been shaking, her eyes had been narrowed and every muscle of her had been tense. There had been this sensation, this feeling of getting lost, of being pulled away by something. Sounds had become damped like she had heard them through water, sensations had become suddenly so numb.

_Faster. Kill. Hunger._

She had not noticed Gendry next to her, saying something to her and neither had she realized what happened with the Lannister men and Yoren and the recruits. She had seen it, yes, but somewhere between her eyes and her brain the information had just gotten lost, like they had decided to stop suddenly.

If she could have seen herself, she would have seen how her eyes had rolled back and her mouth had opened and closed itself like she had lost any control over it. It had been as if her body was suddenly on it's own for a few moments, before something took over. For it had not been her anymore in there. She had snapped at invisible opponents, snarled and barred her teeth, howled and kicked out.

_Kill. Danger. Pack._

Of course she had been found soon, her cover blown by her actions and Gendry not able to drag her away with her body acting as if she had been possessed. The only thing saving her from a sword in her belly had been the dumb brute, even if he wasn't that dumb as he had found out that she's a girl, throwing her to the side and getting hit in the arm himself.

A howl had broken the night and growling was heard, but Arya had missed it. Her mind had been lost in an ocean of sensations, of sounds and images she did not see or hear herself, of odors so much intense than anything she had ever smelled before. Of bodies moving through the night, acting together like one gigantic mind in several bodies.

_PREY!!!_

The air had suddenly turned cold and several men were confused when their breath had become visible in front of their eyes, when the swords in their hands had icecrystals growing on them. The confusion ended and was then replaced by panic when the first horse was torn to the ground. And then the first men were pulled to the ground by massive, powerful wolves.

_BLOOD!!! WARM BODIES!!! PREY!!! KILL!!!_

Arya had been angry, angrier than ever before in her life. When she tasted the blood and felt the life leaving the lion men all she felt was... satisfaction.

-

Nymeria had returned to her when she had needed her the most. She had come with a whole pack of dire wolves, all of them feral and wild and the size of large ponies. They had brought, and Arya had no idea how they had done it, the young Stark girl away from the battlefield and had waited for her to wake up.

And when she did she had found herself in the middle of warm bodies pressed against her, her face cleaned from blood by warm tongues. At first she had panicked, too afraid too move and too confused to understand. She had needed time to understand that she had slept in a cave surrounded by wolves, healthy and whole if a bit hungry. And that the biggest body next to her was that of Nymeria, HER direwolf.

When the fear was gone, when she had understood that the pack would not harm her but actually protected her, she launched herself at the big, warm body of her perhapst best female friend and hugged her tight. She held her as if she would have held her mother. Or even Sansa. But most of all her father. The first tear came with the memory of her father being beheaded, the second one with the memory of Sansa remaining behind. Many more followed.

She did not know it, but at that day the people of villages in several miles around that cave hid in their huts, frightened by the loud howling of a large pack of wolves.

-

For two days straight she had remained in that cave, covered in dirt and never alone, overwhelmed by images she did not see with her own eyes. By smells more intense than it should be possible. By the taste of blood and flesh on her tongue though she did not eat herself. What was happening with her? What was happening with the world?

The only reason she finally did come out of the cave was because Nymeria, who she was incredibely relieved to have back, forced her to do so, nearly pushing and pulling. Immediately she was assaulted by a group of puppys launching at her, demanding to play.

_Joy. Sister. Cuddle. Sister. Happy happy happy._

The thoughts came rushing to her head with the intensity of a bright light, forcing their way through her own. Normaly she would have freaked, but she was perhaps just too amazed to be so by then. No, this had happened to her in the last days too often to be still confused by it.

The adult wolves, the few who were there, were actually quite amused by it and she could not help but to feel like being the one suffering from a small joke. Well, at least they were rather happy, fluffy jokes with adorable big eyes and too much energy. Way too much energy as she found out rather fast, when the little rascals made her their favorite thing ever, because she had hands she could use to pet them and stand on two legs.

-

The Lannister men did not know what hit them. One moment they had been on their way away from a looted village back into the direction of Harrenhall, the next people were dying. They had been one of the many small parties of mounted men tasked with raving havock in the Riverlands, to bleed the Riverlords dry, and enjoyed their time killing smallfolk, raping women and burning villages and hamlets, thus the reason why they had been given this mission.

They had laughed and joked and drank beer and wine they had just robbed from the now dead farmers, taking their sweet time and thus riding rather slowly. If some of the horses had shied because of the smell, or the cold in the air, it had not been noticed. Perhaps they had been too careless, perhaps they never really had a chance. Whatever the cause, suddenly large wolves descendet upon them.

_KILL KILL KILL!!!_

With brutal fury and cold anger the beasts pulled down horses, ripped the throats of men, crippled arms and legs and chaos broke out. The horses paniked and those men who had the mind to draw their weapons had their hands full with keeping their mounts under control. Not that it helped them much.

One or two of the men thought the saw a human being, a small boy, half animal and half beast among the monsters. He killed as the wolves did, hands covered in blood, the face crusted with dirt, snarling and screaming and hacking away with a crude small axe. And when he lost it he pulled out an elegant blade and pierced through armor and clothes.

_KILL LION MEN!!! BLOOD!!! ANGRY!!!_

It was all over in a matter of minutes, perhaps even less. Some men were fleeing and pursuid by snarling wolves, most lay on the ground with their throats ripped out or bleeding out from numorous wounds.

Joren Stackspear tried to crawl away, his body not responding as it should. His left leg was mangled where one of the beasts had bit through his breeches and destroyed his calf, while he bled from a wound in his shoulder. Both wounds did not had to be deadly, but were crippling and thus as good as. He had never been a good knight, not really, never winning a single joust or doing something of valor. His only real skill had been with the bow and perhaps his cruel habit of playing with hot irons, the reason why Ser Clegane had taken him in.

As he tried to rob into the bushes, away from the road and through the thick mud, he suddenly felt a terrible cold crawl up his spine. It was so intense that it bit into his muscles and bones, that his breath was freezing before his eyes and small ice crystals began to form on his armor. He still fought to keep going, when a heavy weight came down onto his back and pushed him into the dirt.

The breath was pushed from his lungs and his hands and mouth began to shiver not only from the cold but also from the terror. And then he saw two feet in front of him. Two tiny, dirty boots which were ripped from long exposure to the elements and muddy, old breeches. He looked up and saw directly into the face of the boy.

If it was a boy. Because this did not look really human anymore. Elongated, pointy teeth in a snarling mouth, claws on the hands, an expression of wild fury on the face. Slowly, very slowly the boy-thing kneeled down, down to Jorens level, and then he whispered: „Tell your friends. Tell your friends... Winter is coming.“

_WINTER!_

The wolves howled, the sound nearly ripping through Jorens ears and sending waves of terror through his body. Then, with agonizing slowness, the weight was lifted from his back and the wolves retreated into the forest, leaving him alone.

Joren survived until four days later when another group of men, led by Gregor Clegane himself, found him. He told them. He did not survive the wrath of the Mountain.

-

Many miles northwest of the gruesome scene of battle Arya Stark was moving through the underbrush of the thick forest. The pack kept to the trees, moving as unseen as possible, making their way north. Back home. Back to the cold lands where snow was eternal and men were rare.

Sometimes she had trouble thinking. Because not all thoughts were her own anymore. Because she was not alone anymore. Because she was now the member of a pack. A family. Instincts and animal behaviour were always creeping up in her mind and sometimes she had to concentrate hard to remember that she was human. Perhaps.

Or was she? Was she perhaps something more? She felt so at ease with the pack, with her family, her second family. Of course she knew that she had another family too, but why not both? This was as much part of her as the family she had been born into. Was she even really human anymore? She had never been a girl that was prone to thinking too much, she had always been one to act on her instincts and moods. Perhaps that was the reason why this was so natural for her, why she saw nothing wrong with sleeping huddled into a pack of predators and eating the raw meat of a deer.

But then there were these moments after the rage that filled her. After the fits of hate and fury, after she and her pack had killed Lion Men... Lannisters. She had to remember that these men were Lannister men, not just Lion Men. Sometimes it felt like something took control of her, took over her mind and then she killed. It felt good, so good, so right to do it, but what would her family, her first one, think? Would they be proud that she killed the enemies of them? Would they be horrorfied? Perhaps a bit of both?

When those thoughts came to her she immediately remembered the screams of those calling for her fathers head, the smell of burned villages, the crying of mothers sobbing for their killed children. And when she did this a cold, hard fury filled her heart and she told herself that it was the right thing to do what she was doing.

She was an avenger. She was a killer. She was a predator. She was a protector. She was a Stark.

And winter is coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not satiesfied with this chapter, but somehow Arya had demanded she got revenge and what else could I do than to give it to her? Anyway, it was a real pain in the ass to write, I think my Arya will become that what a lot of fanfiction-writers usually do with Rickon.
> 
> I will return to Gendry in later chapters if you wonder about him. Don't worry, he had survived the slaughter.


	8. Margaery Baratheon: Two Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had wed the Lord of Storm's End, taking the castle with a kiss which her father could not claim by force. Then she became a queen. And suddenly, when all was going well for her, her husbands brother made problems. It turned out different than most would have thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm screwing around with the time-line, I know. Robb would normally already have been proclaimed King in the North, yet in this world he had other things on his mind. Also he had never send Catelyn down to parley with Renly, as he could hardly speak to her at the time.

Westeros was in chaos. Several men had proclaimed themselves king and fought for the Iron Throne. The Iron Islands were awoken and ravashed by terrible storms. People had changed from mere humans to something more. Monsters and legends were awoken and now walked the lands. King's Landing was overrun with refugees and people were starving in the streets. The Riverlands were raped by armies fighting for it. The Mountain Clans of the Vale attacked the knights of the Vale with renewed vigor. War had come to Westeros, and it had brought with it plague, famine and death.

But it was not as bad as in the free cities.

In a land where cultures met, where people from all over the world came together, where the exotic was the norm, when the magic returned it spelled chaos. In capital letters.

Lys was set aflame in conflict, when the priests of the Red God found their powers strengthened and proclaimed it a favor of R'hllor. People either joined or were burned at the stake and the city watch and hired sellswords fought open battles in the streets against the followers of the fiery god. Madness had taken hold of the city, a holy war was prophecied, raping and lotting was the norm, brother fought against brother and father against son.

All across the free cities strife and conflict broke out when people tried to use the confusion to use for their benefit, searching for a way to better their position. Ships burned in harbors, villages were suddenly lost, a whole merchant fleet vanished in a strange mist and sellsword companies could select the best offer, there weren't even enough men for the mass of people in need of hired swords. Cults popped into existence everywhere, people were turned into other creatures and were either killed or worshipped or captured.

And then there were the stories. Of the troubles in Westeros. Of the birth of dragons in the east. Of a city under the waters of the ocean. Of a war among the Dothraki. Of monsters not only prowling the land but also the seas. Of mermaidens and sea snakes. Of trees that walked like men. Of maidens so lovely you would be turned into stone you set eyes upon them.

One of the rumours no one paid any mind was of the golden headed khal, or king or lord, riding an enourmus beast and amassing an army of Dothraki warriors.

It would bite them in the behind.

-

A storm was raging. A mighty, powerful one that forced ships to stop sailing and people huddling into their huts, that send animals fleeing and the sea raging. Big baves crashed with brute force against the cliffs, rain like it was the end of the world hammered down onto the heads and armors of the men fighting in the melee.

Renly Baratheon and his bride Margaery Baratheon, formerly Tyrell, were of course protected from the weather by a pavillon above their heads, but those in the crowd were wet to their bones. The knights and lord of the Stormlands felt a humoured by the mumbling and moaning about it by those from the Reach, but a lot of it was show to satisfy their own pride. In truth they were as bothered by it as them, but they would rather die than to show it. These were the Stormlands and why should they, the mighty warriors of these lands, feel uncomfortable by it?

She did not show it to anyone, but Margaery was nervous. Very nervous to be precise. The events of the last weeks had left their mark not only on the people, but on the land as well. Still no one knew what had happened exactly, what strange events had taken place to cause these changes and the Ravens from and to Oldtown were always in motion as the maesters of the Citadel were furiously searching for an explanation.

It had become some sort of obsession for her to gather all the knowledge she could about the changes and new developments in the realm, be them rumours or facts. Day and night she spend either with Renly pouring over maps and letters and reports of the army, or with several maesters and scholars hoarding knowledge. And while Renly was driving her insane with his constant good mood and unwavering carefree attitude, the vast amount of information about the mysterious happenings was not ceasing to amaze her. 

She had heard and read too many whispers about the northern host turning into monsters that it could be only a rumour, there had to be some kind of truth in it. A letter from Oldtown had been send to Highgarden and then to her, telling about the sighting of men and women living in the waters and watching sailors and fishers. From across the narrow sea even stranger tales had come to her ears and eyes, of birdmen and plantpeople, of creatures half horse and half human, of animals walking on two legs like men did. But perhaps the most troubling, and amazing, development had been Renly.

Not only had his eyes changed to a strange golden and red colour, depending on his mood, also had a wonderful, golden-white stag appeared from one day to another. It was a big, majestic animal, strong muscles and broad antlers, an unusual intelligence shining in it's dark eyes. It had not left Renlys side and while at first his men, and even Loras, had been startled by it and sometimes even afraid, he had proclaimed it a sign of favor from the gods. Why else should he be gifted with such an wondrous companion, such a majestic creature, if he was not destined to be king? What more prove could there be needed?

Perhaps it was the truth, perhaps not, but it had certainly be a good explanation, as good as any, and gifted him with favor from his followers. By reports from the capital, she still had good relationships with some of the merchants trading with King's Landing and had contacts in several inns all across the Rose Road and the King's Road, there was a small movement of people proclaiming Renly already chosen by the seven and Joffrey a vile pretender born of incest and adultery. Though these people were a minority and hunted furiously by the Goldcloaks, they were there. If even the people of the capital began to decide for Renly, what would the smallfolk of the other regions say?

He certainly had the heart of the people, that was for sure. They loved tales of strong, valiant knights and lords and ladies. And good looking kings were certainly something that touched their hearts, even in these strange and interesting times. 

And still, as she sat on her comfortable yet low throne she could not help but to worry. Her face was a perfect mask of pleasant amusement as Loras, her beloved brother and also known as the knight of the rose, dared anyone else to challenge him. It was one of the many spectacles Renly held to win the heart of his vassals, to present himself and his queen to the smallfolk and lords alike, to show that he was a man worthy to be king. His loyal, golden stag, big enough that he could ride on it and even equipped with a fitting saddle, sat next to Renly's throne, now and then petted and fed with delicious, exotic fruit.

Stannis, the elder brother and thus rightful king, was on his way to Storm's End with his fleet. He was, she knew, as hard as iron and would not bulge from his claim to the throne, even if he did not have the strength to claim it. Yes, Renly had more men, more than ten times the men, but Stannis was an accomplished commander who would refuse to take the knee.

Randyl Tarly, the perhaps best soldier in the entire realm, spoke with a mixture of distaste and admiration of the Lord of Dragonstone, still hurt about the events in Robert's Rebellion and at the same time admitting the other mans skills.

If it would have been normal times she would not have worried herself with such things, as she was absolutely sure that he would be crushed when the time would come. The knights of the Reach, her home, had no equals on the field of battle and together with the Stormlords they were the strongest army of the realm. What chance did Stannis have? None, were it normal times, but they weren't. The proof was sitting only a few feet away, at the time nibbling at a peach and clearly enjoying the taste.

What sort of strange magic did Stannis had at his disposal? Even before the Change, as the maesters of the citadel had already begun to call it, had come there had been whispers and tales of the strange red woman of Dragonstone, a priestess from the east, wielding magic over fire and shadows. She had paid them no mind, just tales to frighten unruly children, but now she wasn't so sure anymore.

Her mind was distracted when a challenger for her brother stepped forward, a big man clad in copper and gold coloured armor. He held a flail and a shield adorned with the sigils of Tarth, called the Saphire Island, in his hands and then he spoke. It was as if thunder clashed and several men nearly jumped back. This voice... If this wasn't a stormlord, then there were none in the entire realm.

"I CHALLENGE YOU, LORAS OF THE HOUSE OF TYRELL." He did not even yell, he just spoke, and yet his voice carried with such a strength and power that it was impossible not to be in awe. Margary could not help but worry for her brother, even if he stepped forward with courage and a daring gesture as he always did, perhaps even a bit cocky. He held his axe, he usually used a sword but felt it was necessary to show that he was deadly with every weapon, in a threatening manner.

"I accept your challenge." And with that the dance began.

Margaery held her breath the moment the mighty flail crashed against Loras' armor and send him stumbling back, it was swung with such a might that she thought for a moment his breast plate had been shattered, so loud had the clang been. It was hardly the first battle she had ever seen, she had grown up surrounded by knights trying to impress the crowds and ladies alike after all, and not the first one of her brother, yet she thought it one of the most daring ones.

While Loras was using his superb fighting skills and quick feet to avoid getting hit, or at least trying to, and getting inside his enemies defense, the other fighter was not an unskilled one either. And he was immensely strong, every hit sending her brother back stumbling while the powerful swings of Loras' axe against his shield did not seem to face him. Margaery remembered a fight of the mountain she had witnessed, who had been of equal strength and constitution, but lacked the skill and technique of this man.

It was a long battle, one that would have had lesser man panting for breath, but only slightly facing Loras and seemingly not even slowing down his adversary. It was at that time that a figure emerged from the onlookers, clad in a dark travelers cloak and chainmail, not the adorned armor of the Highgarden knights of Storm's End soldiers. It was the only reason she noticed him, as he just stood there and watched the fight as those around him did. 

The men surrounding the sandy arena, not a real arena but more of a fighting ring, cheered and yelled and made quite the spectacle, even louder than the storm was. Lightning flashed and her brother seemed to get a good hit in, shattering the shield with a risky but strong strike, causing her to jump up and cheer for him, calling his name. Then, before her amazed eyes, the other fighter moved with a speed that belied his bulk and heavy armor.

A fist crashed against Loras' helmet, sending him back, then the flail hit his knee and let him nearly fall. Suddenly the bronze clad man was above him, pushing him down and having his hands at his helmet, opening it, the other hand held high with the flail in it, threatening to smash in his face. "YIELD."

The men, until now loud and unruly, had quited down and Margary herself sat back down, knowing that her brother had lost.

"... I yield."

The man from Tarth stood up with swift movements and offered Loras his hand, but he refused and got up on his own, most likely still sulking from his loss. Inwardly she scolded him for it, it was not casting a good light on him and his, their, house.

Renly, always the good natured man, clapped and yelled: "Well fought." He even managed a full grin, perhaps even a real one but it was hard to tell and Margaery could not allow herself to check as she would then had removed her eyes from the two fighters. In the corner of her eyes she saw that the stranger in the dark cloak was gone, most likely retreating as the man he had bet on had lost. She paid it no further mind.

"Approach." Though it sounded like a request, it was actually a command that her husband gave, he was quite good at doing this. Her brother all but ripped his helmet off, while the winner did as ordered and then knelt before the royal pavillon.

There was something powerful, something strong about this man. He moved with purpose and steady steps, he had the posture of a man who knew he would win and succeed. For a few moments everything was silent, except the storm of course, before her husband ordered the man to rise and remove his helmet.

For the fracture of a second Margaery wondered what he would look like. Would he be as beautiful as her brother was? Would he be as handsome as Jamie Lannister? Good looking like Renly? He was not.

For he was a woman.

-

Her name was Brienne of Tarth, only living child of Lord Selwyn Tarth of Evenfall, and she was a new added element to her collection of odd things the Change had brought. She was, to be quite honest, extremely unattractive. Tall, not only for a woman, muscular, flat-chested and ungainly, with unfemine features and far too many freckles. Yet she still was an imposing woman, not a beautiful one but one whose presence spoke of power and had an aura of success and strength about her that could not be denied.

Perhaps that had been the reason why Renly had offered her a place in his Rainbow Guard, instead of her asking for it, or the fact that she had defeated not only Loras but also everyone who dared to challenge her. Whatever the reason, Margaery saw the benefit of having Brienne, now the Blue, as guard and sworn sword.

She was also a reason to be concerned. Not herself of course, but her nature. If even a simple maiden, thought Brienne had never been one as far as she had heard, could become the vassal for such powers, what else could be out there? She already dreaded the possibility of her husband and brothers facing off against the northern host. War was unpredictable enough, how much more would it be now?

Thus the reason for her argument with Renly. "You shouldn't fight Stannis in open battle."

He looked up from his desk behind which he sat, dressed in only a fine shirt and simple breeches. It was late at evening and the storm had waned, only a small dizzle by now, but sleep eluded her. So she had sought her husbands presence, in his tent, in which she had so far not spend a single night she remembered with a pang of pain.

"I am sure Loras and his sworn brothers will be quite able to safe me from any dangers I can not deal with myself", he answered with an easy smile that would have melted the heart of any other woman. She however knew it all too well.

"You can't know that", she gave back, her mind not set at peace by a simple, practice smile. A few years priors she would have been, but that was before her grandmother had opened her eyes to the world. "Who could know what sort of surprises he could have for you? You and I both know, as does everyone else, that the world has changed but how much and how, no one can predict."

Again that smile, that infuriating smile, and with a graceful hand Renly took a peach from a bowl of fresh fruit. "I have ten thousand swords and spears and spikes and bows at my disposal, all of the chivalry of the south to add. How my dear, do you think I could lose?"

"He has the red woman."

Now his brows furrowed, before the smile returned, the easy, carefree smile that promised of everything being good and kind. With a slightly mocking tone he asked: "You believe in her magic? In her ways of flame and fire?"

"I believe in him", she answered and turned her head to the side, where Renlys magnificient stag was resting on a bed of blankets.

He had no reply for that and for a few moments he was silent, before finally taking a small bite of the peach in his hand. "Then what do you propose I do?", he finally said, as if he only thought out loud. "That I have him killed in the night, under the cover of darkness, like a pentosi merchant? That I take the knee and serve another twenty years as Master of Laws?"

If her good behaviour would not have prevented it, she would scoffed. "I am a queen. Why should I wish for being less?", she asked, instead giving him a sweet smile. "No, I only propose that we find another way of him kneeling to you, one that does not endanger you too much."

"He will never give in." It was a statement for which she had no argument against, for she knew it to be true. "Stannis is a stubborn fool, a thickheaded, proud man who does not know when he is beaten. He would rather die than to admit me the one being better suited for the throne. He think because he is the older one it should be him sitting on the Iron Throne and not the best-fitted. The crown will suit me, as it never suited Robert and would not suit Stannis."

-

A tourney.

It would be decided by a tourney, who would be the next king of the seven Kingdoms. If it weren't reality Margaery would have laughed at the notice of such an idea. What halfwit would even suggest such a practice? Apparently her brother, if even only in jest.

When Renly had ridden out to parley with his older brother he had taken with him Loras as his shield and Brienne as his standard-bearer, as well as a small host of knights and loyal soldiers. Stannis had brought, she was told, only five armed men as well as his Red Woman and his Onion Knight, the smuggler turned lord knighted by Stannis.

Renly and Loras both had told her of how the parley had gone, as well as Brienne had done once asked though more relucantly. Stannis had been proclaimed the Chosen One of the Lord of Light, the fiery red god from the east, born admist fire and smoke. Renly only had jokes for that and had found it quite good that his brother had changed his standard to that of a stags head in a fiery heart, otherwise the battle, that would now never happen, could have gone quite confusing.

The parley had gone bad from the beginning, with Stannis telling his brother that the Iron Throne was his by right and all those who would deny it were his foes, while Renly replied that no one would want him as king, that he are better suited to wear the crown. And finally Loras, never one to quite understand the finer points of politics and debate, had just snapped they could decide in a tourney.

No one would have ever thought Stannis would accept that proposal. No one would have done it.

For what chance did he have at winning the crown? What chance would his men stand against the best knights of the realm, those who had been born with lance and sword in their hands and raised to ride and fight from early childhood?

So she sat, again, in the royal pavillon and while the last time she had done so it had stormed, now there was only a strong wind. The Lords following her husband were of a good mood, and them and their knights and even a few ladies were already celebrating this won conflict. When the Knight of Flowers and the Thundermaid of Tarth, as Brienne had been dubbed, were riding for their king, what chance did Stannis had?

"It seemed my dear brother had not only found religion, but also lost his mind", Renly quipped in the seat next to hers while petting his still unnamed stag. Then, with a look to the empty seat of Stannis he added: "It seemed he has understood so herself and has abandonded this whole affair."

"His men are still here."

"A jest my beloved wife, only a jest", he said with another one of his easy smiles.

"Of course. I am not feeling very well... It must be the worry for my brother's safety. I never had quite the taste for tourneys." It was a lie, but a good one and if Renly sensed it he did not call her out on it. He also did not have the time, as Stannis did arrive.

Only not in the pavillon, but on the field. And he was also not riding a horse, but a massive, dangerous beast. Black of fur, four strong legs ending in metal hooves carrying a broad, strong body and the head adorned with majestic, wide antlers. Smoke was rising out of its yellow eyes and nostrils, like it would breath fire any moment now.

Margaery gasped as the glowing, bright eyes of Stannis settled on her husband and all she could feel was a cold shower running down her body.

Her husbands brother was not a good jouster, she knew that. He was proficient with a sword and bow and every other weapon that was, but he had no taste for tourneys and thus had no experience in a joust. But he did not have to be, as first the prone body of her brother and then that of Brienne and every other member of the rainbow guard proved.

The horses shied away from this thundering, terryfying creature, making it impossible to ride even forward and making them easy prey, as there were no other words for what they were, for Stannis Baratheons brutal charge. Quite frankly, they never stood a chance.

"No!" Before she could stop him Renly had jumped up and down to the tourney field as soon as the last of his contendants had been send to the ground. "No!!"

People gasped and cried as he stormed, sword drawn into the direction of his brother, who just waited for him at the end of the field, not even bothering to draw his own sword. It was an image like out of the songs, the valiant knight in the golden armor fighting against the dark, black knight, the smaller man charging without fear against the beast.

Then, shortly before Renly reached him, Stannis drew his weapon and anew people, men and women alike, gasped, as his blade was entirely set aflame. There was no wildfire on it like Thoros of Myr was famous for doing, he drew it and flames danced across the black iron, hot and bright even from the distance.

With horror in her eyes she saw how her husband stumbled back, tripping in the mud and falling to the ground. Then his stag was in front of him, wherever he suddenly came from, shielding him with his body and protecting him.

"You think a few pieces of cloth will make you king?", asked Stannis, his voice calm and yet deadly, carrying across the tourney field thanks to the silent watchers. "That a few banners will make you worthy of sitting on the Iron Throne?"

Renly did not reply, he just stood up and looked his brother in the eyes. Perhaps something happened in that moment that Margaery could not make out, perhaps they said something to one another or perhaps it was just a moment of clarity. Whatever the cause, her husband knelt.

And within a moment she was reduced from a queen to the wife of the heir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, where is Baelish? I know that he should have been there, you will find out soon what I did to him.
> 
> I had real trouble writing Margaery, as I think her an awesome character with lot's of depth that are hardly explored in the books and the series. It is hard to do her justice and I have thus decided to leave her the normal one in a world where suddenly everyone and their dogs seem to have become superheroes. Well, not really, but you know what I mean.


	9. Robb Stark: The King in the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sucks. Seriously, it does. I'm not happy with it, not in the least, but I have also no idea how to make it better.

The boy was perfect. He was so full of delicious, glorious ideas of slaughter, pain and murder, of images filled with blood and pain and agony. Tearing out toe and finger nails. One girl beating up another girl with a flail while fucking her with a make shift manhood. Cutting if pieces of skin and feeding it to the victiom.

Oh, it was so wonderful.

She rode the boy-man, the twisted, glorious young king who was the ruler over a city, a realm, of despair and terror and horror, where hunger and famine ruled the streets, where fear was creeping up in childrens beds, where madness was running through the streets. It was a paradise for her and her friends. His twitching cock was buried deep inside her and his breath was hot against her skin, his teeth bit her lips and neck and he moaned into her ears. In front of them on the bed was her twin sister busy with using her knives on a maidens, a young dumb girl whimpering and sobbing, arms and cunt.

Blood, semen, sweat. It was so beautiful, so sensual, a cacophonie of sensations. Agony, pain, twitching waves of pleasure, ectasy, all becoming one big, wonderful sensation. Oh, this was the paradise she and her family had so long sought for.

Every day more of them arrived, every day more and more of her family came to this city. Her brothers with their big, menacing swords and axes, drinking and whoring and brawling, her sisters in the pleasure houses, fucking, corrupting and killing. More and more beggars became followers of her big brother who preached and screamed and babbled. And this little, grand king was the key to it all.

What a find.

When he shot his seed into her, the same moment the still twitching heart was ripped from the girls breast, she felt a deep satisfaction inside of her. Oh yes, this was the life. No one would take it from them.

Oh no. Let them come. Yes, slaughter and murder and blood, how grand and wonderful. She kissed the king and he shoved her off, nearly throwing her away. She only giggled, drunk with pleasure.

-

When he awoke that morning Robb tasted blood on his tongue and for a few moments he had to sort his thoughts. He had dreamed of running thrrough the woods, together with others wolves, killing a deer and eating it. It wasn't like any of the other dreams, it had felt more real, more right, like it was a memory, not just a dream. It wasn't the first of those dreams, had had those before and that was one of the reasons he had not send his mother to negotiate with Stannis or Renly as he had intended at first.

He knew that his men should never knew, they would see it as a weakness, that he wanted to have at least one person near him he could trust. Perhaps he would have done it when things had been a bit more, well, sane, but with the whole realm in chaos and his world being turned upside down he had felt so helpless and weak, that he just did not have it in himself to bear the idea of being alone. Letting Theon go had been a hard decision, especially as his vassals had protested against that decision, but he knew that he could trust the Greyjoy. But sending his mother away too... He feared the possibility of having to face this war, and the burden of leadership, alone.

Grey Wind trotted into the tent and lay his head on the bed, wanting to be petted, and Robb did so immediately, if only half heartedly. When the sounds of the campsite got louder and more intense he finally forced himself out of the bed and got dressed, before sending his squire, Olyvar Frey, to bring him some breakfeast and lemon water.

He was just finished with his meal when the first Lords arrived with work for him, this time Lord Glover who was tasked with leading the vanguard and Lord Dustin, the man resposnible for the supply train. And thus his day began as his last had ended, surrounded by Lords more experienced than him and Grey Wind laying in a corner looking rather smug with himself.

In the days that followed he busied himself with riding in the column, helping where he could and being bored. It was a terrible dull and mind numbing time, filled with long times of nothing happening and waiting for news from the scouts. Robb had a different man riding next to him every time, from lord to soldier to simple servant and blacksmith, asking about their lifes and listening to their complains. Not only filled it his day, it also showed that he was interested in his men, cared about them.

It had been something his father, his now dead father, had told him once, about not asking the men to die for a stranger. If they fought for him, carried his banner, the least he could do was to show compassion and be more than just a man in charge. He needed to be a leader, one people could follow, not a distant symbol on a horse.

The southern and eastern Riverlands were ravashed and long columns of refugees filled the streets on the way either north to the Twins or to Riverrun, following the promise of Edmure that he would help and protect everyone he could. The northern host was met with fear and wonder mostly, sometimes also hope and thanks, but often the smallfolk hid in the woods or in their huts as soon as they layd eyes upon the armed men. No one could blame them, they had made their bad experiences with armies, be them King's men, Lannister men or simple bandits and highwaymen.

A few Riverlords had called Edmure, their Liege, a fool for his decision to host as many smallfolk as he could and giving orders to his vassals to do the same. He could barely defend his own home, how did he thought to defend even more people? Yet Robb's uncle had been stubborn, saying that their people had suffered enough, more than those of any other region, and it was time to give them something back. For where would the Realm be if not for the corn of the Riverlands, for the hard working smallfolk who had fed the capital, Lannisport and even the whole Crownlands for generations? Many of his men were not happy about that decision, for they had paid so much already and saw their stores and coinpurses getting emptier and emptier by the minute. With the exception of the the Freys of course, whose Lord sat in his castle and saw himself getting richer and richer from the refugees coming to his lands.

Speaking of Freys, Robb narrowed his eyes and his mind wandered astray while the man next to him, an old hunter and soldier from the Lands of Lord Karstark told him the best way to skin a deer. He only listened with half an ear while his thoughts returned to the last meeting with his uncle.

-

_It was a very detailed map the size of a large table, showing every road, every river, every village, hamlet, town and castle in the Riverlands and parts of the regions surrounding it. Small figurines of wolves, lions, trouts and other symbols were scattered around the whole map, indicating the position of armies of the different houses. The map had been a present to House Tully after the Targaryen conquest and their rise to Lord Paramouncy, gifted by a now vassal house of them, and had since then been used to plan countless wars and campaigns in nearly every major war of the realm._

_Brynden Tully was in the room, together with his nephew now turned liege lord, Robb Stark, Catelyn Stark and a young man, though older than Lord Stark, wearing the colours of House Frey._

_"We should plan how to take back the Riverlands", Edmure said and took a sip of his watered down wine, grimacing slightly at the taste of it. The loss of his father and new responsibilities were heavy on him, showing in his sunken eyes and grim lines around his mouth were usually a smirk or grin were plastered. "But I recall a messengers of yours telling me that you have something important to tell us dear sister?"_

_Catelyn nodded and her face was grim with determination and a stern, saddened expression. It seemed that not only the war and the madness of the time were taking their toll on her, but also the news she had. "Indeed I have. But perhaps it is better when not I tell this tale, but Ser Rivers does so."_

_Rivers, the young man in the Frey colours, nodded a silent thanks and seemed taken a bit aback by the realisation, that he had to speak to the great lords in the room. "You have my thanks my Lady Stark", he said to her before turning to face the room fully. "I am Ser Victor Rivers a Knight in the Service of Lord Walder Frey, a bastard grandson of his, of his third son to be precise."_

_Robb had to admit he had the Frey look, the weasel like nose and thin appearance, but he was by no means ugly. And while he was dressed in good clothing, they were of only moderate quality and showing that he was not a wealthy man, not even an important one. The sword on his side was well used and his boots had scratches, certainly not a man sitting around in his grandfathers castle. Yet he could not recall seing him before, but that was not necessarily strange as the army was big and there were many knights._

_"What is it Lord Frey wishes to tell us?", Brynden grumbled, spitting out the name like it was poison on his tongue and making his distaste for the man apparent, earning him a warning glance from his nephew. Which he ignored._

_If Rivers was affronted, he did not show it. "The news is not from him, but from me." A short pause, then he added: "My grandfather plans to call back his forces to defend his own lands. He has no wish to marry one of his daughters to, as I heard it and I mean no offense by using the word, a "hairy northern savage"."_

_Immediately Robb snarled and next to him Grey Wind made an angry growl. A hairy northern savage? While he was rather relieved to learn that he would not have to marry a Frey, at least if these information were to be true, the notice of him being seen as such was not something that lightened his mood. And of course there was the simple fact, that he would lose about three thousand knights._

_Next to him his grand uncle spit out, this time for real. "Bha. I've seen piles of shit with more honor than Walder Frey. That stinking traitor should be hanged for the idea alone."_

_It was Catelyn who stepped in now for while she thought the same way as her uncle did, it was neither the time nor the place to say so. "Uncle!" She gave an apologizing look to the Ser Rivers, saying: "I apologize for my uncles words. He should not have said so."_

_"No harm done in speaking the truth", he just returned with a pained smile, though he was most likely not happy with it. He turned to Edmure and gave a slight bow: "I you allow my Lord then I will take my leave. I'm sure you have more than enough to talk about."_

_The red haired Lord of Riverrun nodded to him, not bothering to say something. He then waited until the man had left the room, closing the door behind him, before sighing. "Do you think this is to be true?", he asked and turned to his uncle, weary from the business. "Would Lord Frey recall his men and risk being seen a traitor by his fellow Lords?"_

_"Yes", was the immediate answer. "He know that we are too busy with fighting the war than to come and punish him and his despicable brood. And his son is married to the sister of Lord Lannister, so who knows with whom that traitorous weasel is in bed with."_

_A moment of silence, then Robb added: "But why should this knight bring this information to my mother? Why betray his grandfather if he was not ordered to do so?" While he was hoping it was out of a sense of trust and honor, he did not feel it was that way. "Could it not be, that Old Walder wants us to know, so that he could wring even more out of us? Making us afraid of him calling back his men and acting in fear of what he could do?"_

_"It is a possibility", Catelyn admitted. "But perhaps it is Ser Rivers who hopes to gain something from this. He is a minor knight, an unimportant bastard knighted more for his blood than for his skill with the blade and on horse. He will never inherit anything or gain land if he does not earn it. And we all know how good those chances are, if he sides with his grandfather."_

_"So it could be, that he hopes for a favor", Robb thought out loud. He gave a look to Edmure, who returned the gaze, and then said: "He is your vassal, I will not put my nose in this affair."_

_"While I would like to hear your thoughts about this, I thank you for that", the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands said with a certain smirk. "Uncle and I will take care of this. At the while until we know more, perhaps it would be best if we deal with Lord Lannister and his men, as they are our first problems."_

_"We can not fight a war with our own vassals acting as they please", Brynden grumbled._

_"Believe me uncle, I know, but for now, at this moment, we will make plans to face the Lions. Then I will deal with the Twins and I swear to you, if I have to ride up there and tear the castle down stone by stone to get his head I will do so. IF Lord Walder Frey is actually really planning to abandon us", the younger man gave back, his voice hard. "However, for now..."_

-

The information had been true. Only three days later a Raven had arrived from the Twins, adressed to Black Walder Frey, the heir of the castle and commander of their forces, telling him to take his men and come back to defend their own lands. Robb did not know what had happened after that as he and his men had been in the process of leaving Riverrun behind into the direction of Harrenhall. He had taken with him only the northern men, as they traveled faster on their own and their allies were still uneasy around them, cutting down his strength to about eighteen thousand man. 

The plan was to push the Lannister forces back out of the Riverlands, into the Crownlands and the Westerlands or even south into the Reach. While the Riverlords, now under the command of the Blackfish, would defend the western border from further attacks Robb would lead his men into the east and take back Harrenhall. If he could take the castle he would be in the position to even threaten King's Landing and the eastern border would be a lot more secure.

It was the tenth evening of the journey and they had just passed Lord Harrowways town, not resting in it as it was already bursting with refugees and those fleeing the horrors of war, when news from the scouts were brought to him. He was in the process of eating his evening meal with his lords and personal guard, a group of skilled young and able fighters, when a lightly dressed man stepped up to them. He was a hunter from the wolfswood, his dress and fur coat identified him as such, and as those he was a perfect scout and light skirmisher for the army.

"My Lord, a scout had returned with news of the enemy", a guard whispered into Robbs ear and he winked the man up to him. And then, to the amazement of the hunter, he offered him a place next to him as well as something to eat and drink. "What is your name?", he then asked.

"Martus m'lord", the dark man, he had a rather wolfish appearance with yellow eyes, flat nose and pointy ears, answered, still a bit unsure of himself. Between the nobles he looked like an ugly crow in a flock of doves. Well, at least a bit.

"Tell me Martus, what news is there in the east?"

"Wolves. Lots of wolves, like yours is."

"Direwolves? You have seen direwolves?" That information was startling. He had seen far stranger things in the last weeks, so he had no reason not to believe them. But still, direwolves so far south?

"No m'lord. But I have seen their prey... Lannister men, their throats ripped out and their horses eaten. Killed by wolves, only bigger." He shuddered before he added: "A big pack it must be... Forty or more."

As soon as he said this a loud laughter erupted from Lord Umber and others joined in. "Hah! Even the gods are on our side!", the big northerner yelled and gave the scout a hearty clap on the back. It looked as if the man's back would break under the force of the impact, but he just winced and gave him an unsure grin of pointy teeth.

"And of the Lannister host?", asked Lord Bolton, his stern face not even showing a simple smile. If he was happy about hearing of direwolves killing his enemies, then he was rather good at hiding it. His lack of emotional displays was one of the reason his men, and others, feared him. Another one was his whispering voice, his habit of getting leeched and carrying lots of knives with him. Even Robb felt a crawl on his spine everytime he head to deal with the man.

"Um... we have seen their camp m'lord", Martus answered hastily, not wanting to displease the fearsome Lord of the Dreadfort. "One and a half days to the southeast."

"How many?"

"We counted up to twenty thousand on foot and half that number on horse."

Several curses followed, loudest of them all again Lord Umber, but also Lady Mormont, Lord Glover and Dustin and Karstark. Though this open display of emotions was rather unusual for highborn men and women, Robb felt no need to chastize them. Why should he, he himself wanted to curse but only growled in displeasure. Turning around to his squire he said: "Olyvar, make ready the command tent. Bring refreshments and wine and ale to it and light the candles. We will have need of it."

-

The northern host met that of Lord Lannister three days later. The first contact had been a small skirmish between the Lannisters light cavalry and the Stark vanguard, a short battle in which the northerners drew the shorter straw and retreated after losing too many men. After that the scouts and cavalry reported to the Lord of Casterly Rock that the men of Robb Stark were in a hasty retreat, even leaving behind their camp, ten thousand man on the run from the Old Lion.

Though he was a bit startled by this, he began to pursue, his cavalry led by one of his best commanders using their full speed to catch their enemies with their pants down. Only that they hadn't had their pants down. Because when his heavy knights found them, it was in a murky area filled with puddles and mud from the rain, between the river and a forest, the whole area littered with traps and pitfalls and disguised trenches.

Heavy rain hammered down onto them and the horses stumbled and fell as the heavily armored knights were pulled from their mounts down into the mud, killed with axes and daggers and swords and pikes. Suddenly the full force attack was turned into a deadly trap, a slaughter in which the westerlanders were hacked to pieces, fell on spears, had their throats slid, drowned in the river and were ripped to shreds.

It was only the beginning.

-

It was the evening of the day after the victory, after he and his mounted men had come over the Lannister rearguard in the middle of the night, laying waste to their camp. It had been a risky, dangerous maneuver, one for that he had to had full trust in his commanders and men. Splitting his troop had once again worked, though this time it had been a double trap. The first one had snapped shut when the ten thousand knights, hungry for glory and honour on the battlefield, had run directly into the arms of the ready northern infantry led by Lord Bolton.

Under the leadership of the pale Leechlord the men had constructed a deadly trap for any horse, much more so for a lot of them ridden hard by men not looking to closely and blinded by glory and spoils of war. Hindered by the rain the heavy men had become easy prey for the lighter armed and armored fighters from the North, the tight formation suddenly a hindrance and not an advantage anymore.

And now, two days and a night of nearly no sleep later, he had one more victory under his belt and Lord Tywin Lannister, the famed old lion of the Westerlands, on the retreat. Three victories doesn't win a war, but it is better than three losses, as he had told the Kingslayer back in Riverrun. Well, now he had four.

Harrenhall was still in the hand of the Westerlanders and he did not have the men to take it, but he had the power to make their lifes very difficulty.

"We don't have the discipline to take the castle, neither by storm nor by an belonged siege, no longer is this in our capacity", he told the assembled lords. They had taken up residence in an old ruin, a burned out tower and remnants of an old castle from a time when the Ironborn had ruled these lands. Not torn down with dragonfire like Harrenhall, normal flames, but quite enough to destroy wood holding up the stone and over time it had fallen into total disrepair. For now however the last ruins of the building were the walls of his war room, the grass under his shoes his floor. "You know that we have paid a price. Whatever it had been that had changed us, changed everything, it had not only made us stronger and harder... It had also made us more passionate... more violent and aggressive. Impassive."

Several of his lords nodded and in the light of the fires he could see the faces of Lord Glover and Umber and Bolton, Karstark and Flint. Their eyes like those of wolves and cats, of predators. Pointy ears and elongated canines and shifting expressions, their hair untamed and wild and giving them the appearance of angry spirits, coming down from the north to avenge the death of their Lord, to kill those responsible for the betrayal and the war. He could understand why Lord Frey would not want to marry one of his brood to him. Not that he was happy about the notion, but he understood.

"So what do we do? Sit back with our thumbs up our arses, letting them do as they please?", asked Lord Karstark, his wild white and grey beard trembling with rage. "I say we hunt them down and kill them all and then we ride right up to King's Landing and throw the heads of their men up their walls."

"And then what?", snarled the Greatjon at him, his teeth showing and his lips pulled back. He was quite the appearance, Robb had to give him that. "Should we look up to the Boyking and listen to him laughing at us?"

"Don't talk to me as if I'm a green boy!"

"Then don't act like one!!"

The two wild haired men stood in front of each other, as if ready to go at each other and several others were only waiting for it, before Robb yelled: "SIT DOWN, BOTH OF YOU!" Then he added: "Or do you wan't to feed Grey Wind even more fingers? He is getting fat, so please don't."

The notice of the scene back in Winterfell, when the Greatjon had pulled his sword in front of Robb and got his finger bitten off by his wolf in consequence brought forth a few chuckles. Even the two old warriors had to grin slightly and pulled back, while said direwolf laid down his head again after hoping for some action. At least it seemed that way.

"Renly Baratheon has amassed an army big enough to win the war two times over." The silent whisper of Roose Bolton seemed to come out of nowhere, him sitting a row in the back. "When we ally ourselves with him the Lannisters would not stand a chance."

"A man who has never fought a single battle?", another man gave back and his tone made it obvious that he did not think highly of the youngest of the Baratheon brothers. "So we shall fight to kill one boy and put another boy on the throne?"

"A boy who holds the power of the Stormlands and the Reach", said Bolton without showing any emotions, as if he was just pointing out the obvious. "A boy who is in the process of not getting the crown, but taking it."

"Renly is not right!" It was the voice of Lord Glover, who had so far said nothing to all this.

"Renly is not the rightful king", Robb said calmly, taking his time to pet Grey Wind. "He is the younger brother, Stannis is the one who belongs on the Iron Throne by right."

There was yelling and cursing and a few arguments as the tempers rose up again, before the Greatjon took the word again. "MEN!!", he yelled and stood up again, stepping into the middle of the assembly. Not that he needed to, he was big enough for everyone to see anyway. "I tell you what I say to all these southern Kings and Crowns."

He spit out. Laughter filled the air and even the grim and furious Karstark had to smirk at the notion, before Umber explained: "What do they know of the Wolfswood and the Wall? What do they know about the Lonely Hills and the Stony Shore? As I remember, we bowed down to the dragons. But there are none anymore, I don't see a Targaryen King anywhere. Our ancestors had ruled the icy north for thousands of years before, without bowing to any King on an Iron Throne. We can rule ourselves again. There is only one king I recognize."

Pulling out his sword he turned to Robb and for a second he did not know what to think, not knowing what was happning, before the Greatjon knelt down. "The King in the North!"

Without saying a word another Lord rose up, pulled out his sword and took the side of Lord Umber, but Robb could not recognize who it was. He had learned the banners and colours of the northern houses from the time he could walk and in this moment he did not understand what was happening, as a second voice called: "The King in the North!"

"The King in the North! The King in the North!"


	10. Tyrion Lannister: This is Madness!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A King descends deeper and deeper into insanity and while the realm crumbles around them all, a small man does his best to keep things running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not resist giving this chapter that title. Though I gotta admit, Tyrion would make a very poor Leonidas...

There are lots of reasons why people would go to war. For a banner, for they are ordered to do so, for survival, for revenge. In the end on the battlefield it doesn't matter why men and women are there, it is only important to kill the before they kill you.

Funny how under other circumstances they could have been your best friends. Or lovers. Or neighbors. Everything but bitter enemies. Because it is the small people who suffer in a war, not the powerful and mighty ones. It is them who hunger and die for glory of others, whose houses are burned and wifes and daughters are raped and sons are crippled. 

And at the moment it was them who were dragged from their homes and killed on the spot or brought before the King. King... funny word for a boy who couldn't even tell the difference from his friends and enemies, who saw trouble and betrayal everywhere he looked. Sometimes he felt like brought back in time, to a period of his life when he had served another King, another madman.

Perhaps this was good. Perhaps this was what they all have waited for, the reason for the true kings to return from their exile and overthrow the usurpers themselves. It was just a bit... sudden. Yes, sudden was the right word for it. Because no one had seen it coming, no one would have ever dared to dream of things like this. It was a very strange time. And a very dangerous time.

As he stood on the walls of the Red Keep and saw down to the city of King's Landing, listening to the cries of the dying and the wails of the wives and children, he asked himself whether it was the right time to take his leave from this despicable place. If it was perhaps the right moment to stop playing this game here and relocate to somewhere safer. But where was safer?

He had heard not much from his little birds lately and was getting nervous. Had most of them gone missing or even been killed? It was a possibilty and while he knew that things were chaotic, he would have not thought that they would be that chaotic. And chaos was a black, gaping maw swallowing everything that stared into it. He despised chaos.

"Spider!" A loud voice boomed and with his usual grace the plumb eunuch turnech around, just in time to see the figures of four goldcloaks and one of the Kingsguard arriving at the battlements and making their way up to him. Yet he could not identify the knight, he did not recall seing him before. Was he that much out of touch with the happenings of the realm and even the capital that he could miss the appointment of a new member of the Kingsguard? Not really and this worried him more than the thought of something happening to him. They would just tell him an important message, or something they thought important and be on their way.

"Lord Varys, I hereby arrest you for betraying King Aerys Targaryen and King Robert Baratheon", the massive man, and he was very big, as if he would pop out of his armour any time now, said with heavy words and stopped in front of the Master of Whisper. "By command of his grace Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, you are to be brought to the black cells before you will be brought before him to be judged."

Varys closed his mouth that had clapped open. What? Before he could form a real thought he was pushed down to the ground and hit in the stomach by a brutal fist, winding him and pushing any breath out of his lungs. What was going on? What was happening there?

-

His mother was a good natured woman. She told jokes, even those that were not appropiate for anyone to hear, and laughed about the tiny things in life. She had a soft, mild smile for him every time they saw each other and she found the right words for him when he was feeling like fighting a losing war. He would have loved having her around when he had been a child because now it was too late... and she was dead.

Tyrion felt no need to feel twisted about enjoying the company of a woman who had died when he had been born, because she gave him never any reason too do so, on the contrary. She loved him. And she had always done so. When she had come to him at first, appearing out of thin air, she had called him her little brave lion and he had sobbed and cried for hours afterwards.

Now, several weeks later, he was used to the company of people who had died from time to time, be them normal men and women or highborn lords and ladies. They were rather interesting conversational partners, knowing things and secrets, carrying wisdom and knowdledge from beyond the grave with them. Of course they were no real persons anymore, they were more like echoes of those they had been, as he had found out after listening to them and watching them haunting the halls and rooms of the red keep.

Rober Baratheon, his ghost, was a downtrodden, angry man, full of fury and fighting spirit and yet broken. All he did was screaming and moaning and looking for a fight, a last great battle, a last war, but never finding one. He felt pity for the creature and perhaps even for the real man he had once been, but then again did Tyrion not have the time to do so. Other ghosts were just lost, looking for something to do, or just standing, floating, where they had died still standing guard. Perhaps they were afterthoughts, lost parts of people, be them emotions or occupations or just the raw essence of their being itself.

And his mother was a kind, graceful women who was full of laughter and smiles. He understood why his father had loved her so much and had been so ruined when she had died. Perhaps he had died in that night too.

However, as he lay awake in his bed with Shae cuddled next to him, him enjoying her beautiful smell and her soft skin and everything on her, his minds were on other things. In the last days he had spend more time with putting out fires and lessening the blows his nephew handed out than doing any ruling.

-

His next day began with a busy morning, reading through letters from concerned lords, having to deal with more and more complaints from servants and lordlings alike, listening to the words of men and women who feared for their safety. Because servants were going missing in the Red Keep, riots in the streets were running amok and rumours and wild stories were circulating in the halls of the castle as they were in the dimly lit taverns of Flea Bottom.

He had slept little and eaten even less as he made his way to the council chamber, knowing all to well that were would be only him, his sister, Varys and Pycelle in attendance, if at all. Because since he had arrived in the city he had seen the former old man only a few times and then the Grandmaester had been only partially paying attention. As if his mind was somewhere else all the time. Most likely on the girls he bedded every night and the wine he drank. A Maester had to live in celibacy, but by now nobody cared about that any more, there were more pressing concerns than that of an old, now young, man sleeping around like there was no tomorrow.

Two of his mountain men, or goat men as they were called by most, accompanied him like always and waited before the door to the council chambers while he entered. "Please excuse my lateness, but there was this terrible mess..." He stopped mid sentence as he saw the table empty except for it's chairs and a small bowl of fruit and the romm abanondonded. As he was already late it was most unusual to find nobody there and immediately his concern grew. Was his time there now? Had his nephew decided to despose of him, killing him? He thought it unlikely, but who knows what goes on in the head of that little fucker.

"You are excused, brother." It was his sister who said this as she stepped away from the window where he had not seen her. She was dressed, as always, in lannister red and her hair was done perfectly, her posture majestic and strong. Like always she was the perfect picture of a queen regent, regal and beautiful. Then she turned to face her and he repressed a wince at the sight of the ugly mark on her cheek, as well as the black eye she sported. "We will be a small council today. It seemed Maester Pycelle had decided to remain in his chambers for another day, most likely spending his time with the study of our enemies and ways to destroy them."

"Ah yes, the always working and dedicated Pycelle. An admirable man and inspiration for us all", Tyrion answered with a mocking smile and his voice was dripping with sarcasm. As she had decided not to speak of her newly aquired facial markings he did the same. In a way he felt a wicked way of pride for her behaviour, in a twisted, strange part of his heart. His sister, as abdominal as she was, was not hiding the ugly traces of violence which disfigured her pleasing face, but showed them to the world. A true lioness. However, there were other matters to attend to. "As Baelish is still missing I take it only our friend Varys will be joining us."

"Only if you prefer to hold the small council meetings in the black cells", she gave back while taking place at the far end of the table. "Joffrey had him thrown into the dungeon as of this night, under the charge of betrayal and kingslaying."

"... Why was I not informed of this?"

"I inform you now, dear brother." Her tone was nearly hostile, yet polite. Strange how she had mastered the art of using nice, beautiful words to sound threatening. She was a true politician, through and through, he had to admit that. "I myself learned of this only this morning."

"Have you spoken with him?"

"I have tried, yet his Kingsguard does not allow me entrance to his chambers."

Tyrion let out a weary sigh. With everyone gone but his sister and himself it was practically impossible to run the kingdom. Had this boy gone totally mad, had he lost his mind? It seemed so by now, as his actions were speaking for himself. Waiting for another few seconds he got up from his chair and took his things. "Well, as this room is far too big for the two of us, perhaps we should continue this conversation in your chambers your grace."

"You are not welcome in my chambers and the only reason why I suffer your abdominable presence at all, dear brother, is because father has made you acting Hand of the King", Cersei spit out. "But go, leave me. And when you return to your whores and drink, remember to send a letter to father asking him to come to the defense of the city."

"Father will not listen, you know that as good as I do", he answered, ignoring the stabbing pain in his chest at her comment about suffering his presence.

"He has sworn allegiance to Joffrey and he orders him to come to the defense of not only his king, but also the capital and most important city of the realm. Either he did as ordered, or his head will spend company to Lord Stark's head."

He only stared at her, before turning around and strifing out of the room. It seemed that not only his nephew had lost his mind, but his sister too. Ordering Tywin Lannister around? Robert Baratheon had done so, but then again had that man won his crown in battle. Aegon Targaryen had done so, but he had the army of the realm behind him, at least back at that time. Joffrey may had an army too, bis his was the army of the Lannisters, sworn to Tywin Lannister.

-

The following two days were filled with moments of terror and long periods of waiting for reports from the scouts and the army. Joffrey had now and then short rushes of cruelty and madness, be it ordering the killing of smallfolk he thought were on the side of his uncle or shooting crossbow bolts at unsuspecting prey, he made the life at court a living hell. At least it should have been, but somehow most of the court seemed to have adapted rather well to it.

With most of the small council missing he had stopped even pretending to running the realm and all he did was trying to lessen the damage. He had written no less than six letters to his father, knowing that they would either be ignored or just not answered, and made plans to flee the city with Shae and Bronn and Pod and perhaps even Lady Sansa. It was treason to think so, to make plans like this, but then he was realistic enough to notice the danger he was in.

Then, one morning, he was awoken by a heavy hammering against his door. "Imp!! Imp!! IMP!!!"

It was Bronn yelling and most likely hammering against the door as well. Tyrion all but jumped from the bed and waddled to the heavy door of his chambers, dreading the cold he had to face as he left the bed with the warm body of Shae in it, and opened it. Before him stood indeed Bronn, as well as his squire Podrik and, much to his surprise, the Hound. "What is it that you have to scream for me like a lost toddler would cry for it's mother?"

"The little fucker has gone totally mad", Sandor answered with a grunt, not bothering with any false friendlyness. "The Queen Regent was arrested this dawn and he threw me from the Kingsguard."

Tyrion stared at the massive man for a few seconds, before turning around and hurrying at getting dressed. When he returned with only his breeches and a simple tunic on, Pod was holding his doublet and a belt, the Hound was already gone and only Bronn was waiting for him, looking nervous.

"Would it be a bad time to ask for my money and my lordship?", he asked in a bad jest and thought he did not seem to await an answer, the small Lannister gave him one.

"No, it's the best time. Because if everything things go bad, we will most likely not walk out of the throne room but be carried out in pieces."

The massive throne room had been redecorated several times in the last years, first after Robert had claimed the throne and then again when Joffrey had been proclaimed king. But Tyrion did not remember that it looked like this, so imposing and twisted and dangerous. Was that the odor of blood and semen and wine in the air he smelled, covered by heavy perfumes and oils?

Half of the court he did not know, either because he really did not know them or because they had become different. The lordlings and ladies smiled and grinned and were clearly amused, or they tried to hide their horror behind masks of indifference. He had to push through the masses of bodies before he could see the spectacle in the middle of the room and when he did he could not believe his eyes.

Her dress ripped open, her back covered in bloody lash marks, her hair a wild mess lay his sister, two men of the Kingsguard towering over her, holding up whips and sticks. For a second he thought she was dead, but then he saw the swallow breathing of her and heard a faint whimper. And in front of the throne stood his horrible nephew, grinning like a fool, like a small terror, his eyes filled with the glim of madness and amusement.

"HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!" Perhaps it was not the best thing to say, but Tyrion just yelled the first thing that came to his mind. He hated his sister nearly as much as he hated his father, but she was his family and he also loved her. "She is your mother!" While he said this he stepped into the ring that had formed around the Queen, striding past the two knights he did not know and into the direction of his nephew. "She is your mother. She gave birth to you."

"I HAVE NEVER GIVEN HER PERMISSION TO DO SO!", the small shit yelled back, his face now a mask of fury. Several of the courts men and women chuckled and one or two even laughed out loud.

"Your uncle Stannis is marching on the city, only days away, and you do this?!"

"I AM THE KING, I CAN DO AS I LIKE!!"

And for a small moment Tyrion saw not only his nephew standing there, but also the image of a long haired, scrawny man with long fingernails, cackling and yelling and grinning, swaying between fury and laughter. "The mad king did as he liked, and we all know how he ended. You wish to ask your uncle Jamie about that?"

"No one threatens the King in the presence of the Kingsguard!"

It was Ser Mandon Moore, though calling him by his title was an insult to every true knight, yelling this, already stepping up to him and his hands already his sword hilt, ready to draw it any minute.

"I am not threatening the king, I am educating my nephew", Tyrion gave back and then turned to Bronn, while noticing that Pod and his cousin Lancel had given his sister a coat and pulled her up, and said: "Bronn, if Ser Bronn says something again, kill him."

"With pleasure", answered the sellsword, easy smile on his lips and hand on his knife, as if he was not standing in the perhaps for the moment most dangerous place in the whole realm. As if he was completely in control of the situation and Tyrion felt relieved for having him around, because otherwise he would most likely be dead ten times over. Or would have gone insane too.

Turning back to the member of the King's Guard he said: "That is a threat. See the difference?" Not bothering any longer with the fool he faced his nephew again, who had began to walk up and down in front of the throne, as if he was a caged animal. "Your grace, may I offer..."

"Get out of my sight, Imp!!", the young man suddenly screamed, a wild fury in his eyes. "Take your animals and get out of the city!"

"What?!"

"BY SUNDOWN YOU WILL BE DEAD!!!"

He was about to say something back, to try to make him see reason, to talk his way out of this mess, but then he saw the ghostly image of the mad king, the long haired man with the long fingernails, hovering over Joffrey, whispering the words: Burn them all. Whatever had happend to Joffrey, it was too late now to do anything about it. He was gone, totally lost, if Tyrion even saw the echoe of the Mad King hovering above him.

"As you command your grace", he simply said and turned around. But before he walked away he stopped himself, remembering something. With a swift movement of his hand he pulled the broosh of the Hand of his doublet. Letting it fall to the ground he strode out of the throne room, followed by Bronn.

-

Using his mountain men, he paid them from the royal treasury that may have been heavy in dept but still filled with silver and gold, he stripped the tower of the hand bare of anything usefull. As well as the chambers of the Queen, the rooms of Varys, those of Lord Baelish and even the private rooms of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, namely Jamie. Not that it was really his, as he had not seen them from the inside since he had become Lord Commander, but it was the principal that mattered.

He hoarded as much wealth as he could without giving himself away, he made sure he had enough horses and enough weaponry to arm a small army, which he had, and only then did he took care of the perhaps most important part of the whole ordeal.

Because as much as he hated his sister and as much as he hated his father, they were his family and he would have done the same to them. If he would do so much for even those he hated, how could he do less for those he loved? Because neither Myrcella nor Tommen had done any wrong, had never hurt even a fly, and thus he could not leave them behind in a city that was about to get sacked, knowing what would happen to them only all too well.

Bringing his nephew to follow through with the plan was easy, he just had to tell the boy it was a big game they were playing, a game of hide and seek. And to hide even better they had to die his hair black and dress him in servants clothes, like they played dress up. Passing him off as a simple servant boy was easy. It was Myrcella that made him worry, but in the end he did not have too, as she already knew that something horrible was going on and was ready to follow his plan immediately after he told it to her.

However, she asked: "Will we bring Sansa with us?"

As much as he wanted to say yes, he was already running late on his plans and had to hurry. Breaking out the Stark girl and smuggle her out of the city might have worked if he knew the tunnels as good as Varys, but sadly it was not to be. So he had to shake his head as an answer. "I'm sorry sweetling, but we can't."

He would have thought her to protest and yell, but she only accepted it with a repressed sob and a nod. By nightfall that day King's Landing was already two hours behind them, following the Gold Road that run next to the Blackwater Rush.

It was four days later, resting in a camp off the rode, that he learned of the news of the battle. His sister was still hurting and the young maester riding with them did what he could to tend to her wounds, but the frightful look on his face told Tyrion everything he needed to know. Myrcella cried a lot and he was thankful for Shae, who tended to her as much as she could. Tommen... well, his nephew was actually having a good time, perhaps the only one who had so, as the mountain men were actually amused by his antics and questions and told him stories inappropiate for a boy that age.

But all that lost his interest, when the a trade from King's Landing told them the news. That the Blackwater had burnt. That the city was set aflame and still burning most likely. That thousands had died and were butchered. And that Joffrey had stood over the dead body of Renly, slaying him before eating his heart.


	11. Edmure Tully: Pulling the Lion's Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Riverlands are engulfed in war and Edmure Tully is sick of being on the receiving end.

He was weak from the long time with only rats and thin soup to eat, from being unable to stand and sitting in his own shit, because the guards were not keen on helping him take a dump. He had to be dragged more than he could walk and several times he nearly fell to the floor and was only spared this shame by the strong hands holding him up.

Strong hands. Really, really strong hands.

Perhaps it was really favor by the drowned god they had been given, these new, ungainly and terryfying and strong bodies. He would have been strong enough to rip the chains in his cell from the wall and to break the rusty fence holding him in, yet to what effect? He would just have been dragged back and to spare himself this shame he had remained in his small, damp cell.

He coughed as he was all but thrown into the solar of his father, or what had been his father's solar, and immediately he stumbled and his head hit the floor with a loud bang. It hurt, yet not as much as it should do. Perhaps this was to be natural, as he had hard scales under his skin and strong horns on his head, protecting his brain better than a normal helmet could do it.

"Well, look at what the sea had brought to our shores", his sister, curse her selft satiesfied demeanor, gloated and with a heavy groan Theon pushed himself up from the ground. In front of him was the big, dark room his father had used as solar, the only lighting coming from the lit fireplace. His sister, Asha, sat in one of the chairs at the big table, her feet up and an oversized knife in her hands. She grinned at him while he used the blade to skin a small, big, hare and cutting out pieces of flesh from the carcass, like others would do it with an apple.

"Kiss my ass", he muttered and forced himself to his feet, swaying slightly. Beside him and Asha there were also his uncles Victarion and Aeron in the room, no one else. Aeron was tall and his long gray hair was filthy from salt and seawater, while his four horsn were twisted and turned in odd shapes. Clad in his dirty robes he looked like the grizzled priest of the drowned god he was, if not a bit too much.

Victarion however... Well, he had always been big, but now he towered over anyone. His broad, massive figure looked like a force of nature, big and burly and with sharp, brutal features like hammered from stone. His two pair of horns were long and only slightly curled, making him look even taller. And from somewhere he had gotten a few pieces of armor in his size, a crude breastplace adorned with the Kraken of their house, leg bracers, boots. And a helmet that was more of an iron mask.

"Is that the thanks I get from getting you out of the dungeons?", Theons sister asked and gave him a broad grin that reminded him of a shark seizing up potential prey. 

"Where is father?", he asked instead of answering, while ignoring the groaning of his stomach who was demanding food. No wonder, as the big desk was filled with a simple yet filling meal of fish, meat he could not identify and ocean fruits.

"Dead." This growl came from Victarion who stood in the back of the room, seizing up his nephew. 

For several seconds Theon just stared at them, before he nodded numbly. Though he understood the fact of his father being dead, he could not really grasp the idea of it. His father could not just die. That was just not possible. The old warhawk was too tough, too stubborn, too... too much his father to die. Finally he opened his mouth, then he closed it again. And then: "Have I..."

A short pause, then the mountain that was his uncle nodded. "His body gave out under the beating he took. He died in his sleep."

"..." Theon stared at them. Somewhere in his brain he knew that he was by right now the Lord of the Iron Islands, but that idea did not really occur to him. He was a kinslayer. A traitor. A criminal of the most heinous crime possible. On one hand he could not bring himself to mourn for his father, not imagining to do so in the future, but on the other hand he could not couldn't care. Not that he cared. He just couldn't not do it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity to him but was most likely only a few moments, Asha pushed a big bowl of food into his direction. "Here, eat. Then take a bath and get a good night's rest. We will talk about what we do by tomorrow."

-

The food and the bath did good at making him feel like a human being again, as did the nights rest in something that resembled a bed. As he was too big for any normal bed, as were every of his fellow ironborn, he had to sleep on furs and blankets. At least someone had sewed two large blankets together so that he could use it to cover his complete body and not only half of it, like he had been forced to sleep back in Robb's camp.

And yet his bones still ached as he crawled from his sleeping place

-

His new chambers were bigger and were next to his new solar. The bed had been replaced by his own one, the decorations were taken down and larg parts of the remaining furniture was to be taken away as soon as possible. And yet Edmure still felt like he was an intruder in here, like he was a guest in the room and not the one owning it. He would not even haved moved here, had his uncle and sister not both told him that it was the proper thing to do, that it was what his people wanted of him.

Because his father was dead. Drowned. In his own bed.

It had only been a question of time, his father had been old and weak and sick. It was not so much the knowledge that he was dead, because he had awaited that for a while now, but that he had not been by his side when it happened. That no one of his family had been at his side. That Lysa was still up in the Eyrie, as good as a world away, and Catelyn had been in the camp of his nephew and Brynden had been on the way... and he in captivity, just outside these walls, on the other side of the river.

Had he suffered much? Had he fought for his life? The thought of him laying here and kicking and having a seizure was a constant image in his dreams and waking hours alike, keeping him awake at night and sleepy at day. Perhaps it was the fact that the women, thing, whatever, he saw now and then was the reason for his death. Perhaps it was the rooms he had slept in, now the chambers of Edmure. The new Lord of Riverrun, Lord Protector of the Riverlands... The title felt so wrong in his mind.

"You should shave, you look like a wildling", his uncle grumbled as he saw him at that morning, the morning of the departure of the northern host. Edmure only rolled with the eyes and nodded numbly, before taking another sip from his water.

"As you are certainly not here to tell me about my facial hair growing, I take it there is something up for you barging into my chambers at this early hour", he said while putting on a tunic. A clean one, he had to keep up appearances now, even if he personally could not care less. And he liked his beard, even if it was a bit shaggy by now. But he did not feel like getting it trimmed.

"Early hour?" Brynden scoffed. "The sun is up for several hours by now boy, it is already nearing time for supper."

"Then why have you not send someone to catch me for breakfast?", he asked, not bothering to remind his uncle not to call him boy. Because that would not only be futile, but also bothersome, and he had no desire to get into an argument with the old, accomplished warrior.

"You have to thank you sister for that", the older man answered, his tone now softened a bit. While saying this he sat down in a comfortable chair by the unlit fireplace. "I was about to get you, when she said that you were awake until late in the night, standing at the battlements or prowling the corridors, and needed your sleep."

Instead of saying something at the unspoken question what he did so late in the dark, he turned to the windows. Where formerly the tents of the Lannister forces had stood, now there were the camps of his own vassals and those of the northern men, though the later ones would be deserted quite soon. His nephew was planning on traveling light, using the superior speed of his forces to surprise the men of Tywin Lannister and having them cought with their pants down.

Funny how the world had changed so much in so little time, in only one minute it seemed. Even those who were not transformed like his nephew and men were, or even like the poor Greyjoy boy, felt it. Especially him. The rivers were no longer just masses of water traveling through the lands, they were something alive. The land itself was alive, changed and turned and perhaps even intelligent.

As much as this sounded as madness, wasn't madness the only thing constant in this world anymore?

As he knw no answer to that question he just took another sip of his water. Then he said: "There is this woman."

Though he could not see him, he knew all the more that his uncle was either rolling with the eyes or making a face. And only a few moments later he spoke up, just like Edmure knew he would do. "Is she of high birth? A lady befitting our house?"

"She calls herself the Queen of the Rivers and she is the one responsible for the death of father."

A short pause. Then: "You father died in his bed. Alone."

"He drowned." Another sip from his water and finally he turned around to look at his uncle. "He drowned in his bed, killed by the River itself. By her."

"That talk is nonsense boy." Brynden got up. Despite his age he was a tall man, lanky and fit. And one of the best fighters in the realm, known for not only his skill as commander but also of the blade. "You are confused. Listen to yourself."

"No." Though he was still solemn, Edmure's eyes had turned a bit darker and his brows were furrowed. "You listen to me. This woman IS the River. She is the living embodiment of the great streams that make our lands as prosporous as they are and protect us. She can take life as easily as she can give it. She had killed my father and Kevan Lannister and many more and had freed me and proclaimed me her lord." In truth she had proclaimed him her king, but there was no need to say it out loud, the tale was already strange enough as it was.

For several seconds Brynden stared at him, then he scoffed. "Fine. I see you are stubborn as your father was, like a mule."

Was that a compliment or an insult? Edmure could not tell, but he just took it in stride.

"Anyway, you are right, I'm not here to talk about your beard. The Freys have been ordered to leave us and return to the Twins, just like Ser Rivers had foretold us."

Now that was a reason to groan, which he did. "Hells", he cursed. He took a moment to gather his thoughts, forcing them away from his father and the Queen of the River and the duty now resting on him, and then made a decision. "Fine. Please call my commanders to the war room. I will be there shortly."

-

Walder Frey, called the Black, was the oldest and first born child of Lord Walder Frey, the arrogant piece of shit that sat in his twin towers and got fatter and fatter and richer and richer by the year. He was the heir of the mighty castle, about to inherit one of the most prosporous regions of the whole Riverlands, if not THE most prosporous.

The Lord of Riverrun had said goodbye to his nephew and his men, wishing them luck and sharing a joke with a some friends he had made over the last days, before having to face his own vassals. Dressed in his best tunic and doublet, a cloak in the colours of his house with a silver broosh the form of a trout holding it in place, he strode into the war room with a sword at his side. It was still the sword he had found in his hand that one fateful night he had escaped from the Lannister camp, the one made from blued and impossible light metal.

If he was to be their liege he had to look like it and to act like it. Thus not only his state of dress, but also his attitude. Without wasting any time, onyl greeting the ones in attendance, he said: "Walder Frey. I have received news that you are called back to the Twins by your father. I take it this is only a bad rumour?"

The old man, he was already over sixty and still not the lord of the Twins but only the heir, made a slightly pained grimace. "I am sorry to say this my Lord, but no, it is not a rumour. My father has indeed written a message, ordering me and my men to return home to our lands."

Edmure looked at him. Black Walder was one of the few good Frey there were and he was happy that he had survived a grizzly wound he had taken to the side, a miracoulus recovery even the maesters could not explain. Perhaps another of those wonders, he could not say. The formerly black haired, now his hair had long turned grey, man was a rather honest, good natured man and even if not the smartest one, he was skilled enough. And, and that was even more important, seemed to be loyal. "You can do that of course", Edmure finally said, his face a deep scowl. "But know that as soon as this meeting is over, I will send out letters to all over the Riverlands, writing to every soul who will listen that I do not only charge your father with treason, but have also already found him guilty of being a traitor in bed with our enemies. You are the heir of the Twins and are, as of right now, the Lord of the Crossing. If you march back north you will be charged and sentenced as your father is."

Walder stared at him, eyes wide and hands balled to fists, shaking with... fear? Anger? Edmure could not say and neither did he care. First he opened his mouth to say something, then he closed it again. And then again he opened it, searching for words. Then he answered: "My Lord?... You... you can not do this."

"He can and he will", Bryndan scoffed from his position next to his nephew, his voice grave and a deep snarl. "Your father has not only betrayed his liege lord, my brother, by refusing to send his troops, he also forced heavy payment out of our northern allies who were coming to our aid. AND now he recalls his men, leaving us fighting this war alone. Your father has gone too far this time, he will be brought to justice."

"With what troops?", the Frey asked. "I... I will remain here with my men, I will. But you can not send men to my fathers seat, he has still two thousand knights under his command and we need every able men fighting the lannisters. We must wait until this war is over my Lord."

As much as he hated to admit it, Edmure knew that he was right. He had less troops than the Lannisters and his men had to hold a long line of land, making every men he pulled back a heavy loss he could hardly afford. So he had to do it another way. Because he would not wait for this war to end, he refused to do so.

"That will be my problem, and if I have to hire a Faceless Man to do so, I will find a way to bring Lord Walder Frey to justice." He saw the shocked faces and knew immediately that he should not have said that. Inwardly wincing for again speaking his mind he added: "Don't worry, I will not hire a mercenary assasin, I have neither the money nor the relations to do so. But I am through with playing nice in this war. I will and can not afford lords playing for power while we have a people to protect, a war to win and a lion to drive back into his den."

He leaned forward. "As long as Walder Frey draws breath, I will not trim my beard. As long as the traitor to my house lives, I will let my beard grow." A short pause followed, then he said: "Now, about our war..."

The next day whispers were running amok in the castle, because Edmure had his beard cut and trimmed on the morning.

-

The Frey forces did not return back home, the remained at his side. As did those of House Blackwood, Bracken, Vypren, Mallister, Piper, Vance, Mooton and all the other houses sworn to him. If there would have been no war, there would have been more than forty thousand men ready and able to march at his command, nearly a third that number on horse. For now he could not even muster thirty thousand and of those a lot were already engaged in small battles along the western border.

And he could not, other than his nephew, take all his forces and march them as one strong host, as he had to defend large areas and to retake others in the east, especially Harrenhall, Maidenpool and Saltpans and those surrounding these settlements. He had spend hours over hours brooding over these maps, drinking only water and eating only bread and simple cheese and eggs, trying to figure out a way to take back what rightfully belongs to his people.

His uncle had taken a large part of the forces, all on horse, to secure pinkmaiden and throw back a Lannister force consisting of mercenaries, sellswords and lannister soldiers which was on the way. He was still not too sure to trust these informations, as they had come from not men or women but a ghostly image of a women in his washing basin. And yet he could not risk not to trust this information, because if he would loose Pinkmaiden Riverrun was next on the list. Or Acorn Hall. Or High Heart. Or Stoney Sept. Whatever they would do, his people would suffer, something he could not allow.

It was in that moment that he became aware of just how strong the Lannisters really were, what there real power was. They were stinking rich and so were their vassals, enabling them to let armies literally appear out of nowhere. There was so much gold and silver in the cellars of the Rock that they could buy half the realm and still have something left.. That combined with their well defendable mountain passes AND the high population made them an incredibely dangerous enemy, one who was under normal circumstances destined to conqour the Riverlands in a few months.

However, these were not normal circumstances, as he was only all to aware of. While he was here in Riverrun mustering his forces, making plans and waiting for good news, he was also holding council with not only his family and vassals, but also the Queen of the River.

After he had told his uncle the two had not spoken about this anymore, at least not until recently just before Brynden had ridden south. They had spoken long and harsh words had fallen and finally his uncle had just said that he was the Lord Paramount and should not forget that, no matter what he thinks is the truth. Because the truth was, that the Riverlands were again the battleground for a war, like so many times before.

Besides his uncle no one knew of her and he had no desire to change it, but perhaps it was only a matter of time until others would know too. Because fisherman had seen strange beings in the river and soldiers were telling stories of small Lannister forces being pulled under water by womanly water spirits, where they drowned and died.

This night she came to him, again, meeting him on the small wooden landing stage of the castle. He stood there and watched the mirror image of the half moon on the glittering water surface, surrounded by the stars and glimmering fishes. It was like the silver and blue coloured scaled beings were flying through the sky, dancing around the moon.

She appeared out of the river water, rising up as if she was pushed up, the water flowing down her beautiful form, and then she stepped onto the landing stage in front of him, smiling up to him with dreamy eyes and an innocent face. "Have you come to visit me?"

"I have, my Queen", he answered and gave her an honest but weary smile. He was tired from the long days behind him, dragged down by the responsibilities he was now burdened with. And the knowledge that she had been the one killing his father, the one who was responsible for him having lost both of his parents by now.

"You are tired", she said, her eyes filled with worry. "What is it, my king?"

Ah yes, the king thing. She still called him her king, even if he wasn't one, but she did not learn and neither did she seemed like she wanted to. He let it go, like always by now, there was no sense of correcting her. "It's... It's just..." It's you. You, who I love and hate and desire and despise. You who kill those who I love and protect what I love, who is everything I ever wanted and everything I hate. "It's just the war. The sorrows of a King unable to protect those who he helds dear and that what he is sworn to defend."

"Then make them pay."

She said it as if it was something absolutely natural, like there was no reason to do anything else at all. "Do to them, what they do to us."

Us. It is us by now, not you or me, us. The words that come from her lips are strange. As are her lips, which he would kiss and imagined that they would taste like fresh water and spring. Those are dangerous thoughts though and he shoved them down, so deep that they must be at them bottom of the dungeons by now.

So he just asked: "How? How can I make them pay when I have to protect what little we have left?"

Her eyes found his and there was a moment of clarity and understanding, something natural that came to him like he had missed it always and never knew until now, before she stepped back into the river and was gone. There weren't even rippes in the water.

And he understood.

-

"Ser Rivers, I thank you for meeting me at this late hour", he said as the young knight was near enough to hear him without having to shout. They were in the great hall of Riverrun, him standing in front of the fire and the grandson of the now dead Lord Frey stepping up to him. The knight was looking dissheveled, most likely just out of bed, his tunic slightly crumbled and his hair in disarray.

"Well, I thought if you call at this hour it must be important", the young man answered and gave a pained smile. "If I make ask my Lord, what is the reason for you calling me?"

"Ser Rivers, you are a man of, though noble, unfortunate birth", Edmure began to explain. "You are destined to live out your life in service of your now uncle, never to inherit anything of importance and with luck finding a wife and living a simple life."

"Oh, thank you, I didn't know", came the sarcastic reply. Perhaps it was the ungodly hour, perhaps it was the pain of the truth, but Victor Rivers did not seem to hide his contempt of this being said out loud. And while it was a reason for a heavy beating for other lords, Edmure saw no qualm of hearing the truth, especially if no one was around to notice this disrespectul behaviour. On the contrary, it was a reason for him to like the young knight more. There weren't enough men and women willing and brave enough to speak the truth when it was needed for, especially if it was one that hurt and was painful.

"However, I have an offer for you. This is not a command and you can refuse, but I think you will not." Edmure turned to the fire, staring into the flames. There were tales about Stannis Baratheon praying to the Red God of fire, not sleeping any more but looking into the flames for nights and nights. He had no desire to become like that himself, but it was something to look at for the moment without having to face the other man. "I plan on leading a small force of able men to take the Tooth. And I want you on my side. If we win and you survive, you will be rewarded. If not..." He shrugged. "... well, then we're dead."

Ser Victor Rivers stared at him with an open mouth. It seemed that whatever he had expected to hear, this was not it. "Um... about how many able men are we talking?"

"Two hundred at maximum, but I think there will be less willing to follow me on this venture."

-

He had one hundred and six and ten, most of them with him because they had nothing to loose and everything to gain. Catelyn had tried to talk him out of it, saying that it was madness, that it was as good as throwing himself on a sword, but he had trust. One hundred and ten and three men, and three women, armed with small weapons and short bows and protected by leather and chain mail at best, left Riverrun disguised as peddlers and poachers and brigands, carrying several sacks of exquipment with them.

He had Lord Jason Mallister tasked with the defense of Riverrun and gave explicit orders to Lord Vance to keep the fords secured, only to let through armies marching from east to west, but not the other way around. Any western armies out of the Riverlands was good news to him... and they would loose a lot of them if they were attacked in the rear while crossing the river. He had also given Catelyn a letter with the order to open it should he fall or taken captive, written in it who would take his place if the need would come.

As soon as they were out of sight of the camp and the castle Edmure ordered them into the water of the Red Fork. They all stared at him as he was crazy, which he could understand, so he just sighed dramatically and stepped into the water himself. "Those of you who are brave enough follow me. It will be dangerous and a lot of us will die, but it will be worth it. Those of you too craven, no ire will be your problem, I assure you."

And then he was gone, pulled into the water like he was a small piece of drift wood and not a grown man. For a few moments his mind was blown, his eyes saw too many things and his body was torn to pieces and reassambled, icy wet claws cutting into his innards. Then there was a floor underneath him again and he fell to his knees.

His head hurt and his body was cold and his limbs felt like they were about to fall off, but he knew that it had worked. That he was no longer on the Red Fork, but on the shor of a small mountain stream that led to the Red Fork. He was surrounded by rock and stone and sparse vegetation and on the horizon he could see the mountains of the Westerlands. A wet noise could be heard and immediately he turned around, seeing one of his men growing out of the water at a frightening speed, before all but thrown to the ground next to him.

The scared man, a heavy fellow with a scarred face and missing teeth, looked around with frightened eyes and crawled away, trying to get up but unable to do so. Others followed, first alone, then in bigger groups of five or six and in one moment even a dozen at one.

All in all he had four and ninety men and three women with him, more than he had thought would follow him. Ser Rivers was among them, a bit pale and shaken but whole and unharmed. He allowed his men and women a moment of rest, before he forced them up and moving.

They had arrived, as he soon found out, about and hour away from the Golden Tooth, just above it. It was a strange feeling, knowing that the forces of House Lannister had used this castle as a staging point for the attack of the Riverlands and that it was also their best defense against attacks. And here he was, about to take this castle for himself. And not only the castle but also it's rich mines. As they lay on the edge of the bluff above the castle he turned to Rivers and said: "You see that big castle down their? I will have need of a castellan when we have taken it."

The bastard born knight gave him a predatory, self assured smirk as answer, but his eyes betrayed him, showing fear and uncertainty. Which was perhaps a good thing, because otherwise he would be an idiot. Waiting for another few hours Edmure and his fighters lay on the watch until the night has fallen. Sadly it was a rather clear night, but he had to work with what he had. Having used the day to laze around, eat a bit and catch a bit of sleep they were ready to go when the moon had risen.

As silent as they could they opened their supply bags and pulled out the Lannister coat of arms and armor, enough for twenty men. Men got dressed and about that number were tied together with knots that were easy to open if you just pull. The rest of them made ready for the descent.

And so he robbed nearer to the highest tower of the castle, one build into the cliff that formed the wall of the mountain pass through which the from Riverrun to Lannister Rock ran. He had coal smeared into his face and a cowl over his red hair so he would not be seen, his whole body dirty and his clothing dark and brown and green. Together with his remaining men not dressed as Lannister soldiers or prisoners he came nearer and nearer to the tower, using rocks and natural hazards as cover. Finally they were on the foot of the tower and pressed themselves against the old stones. And then they waited.

They had not to wait long, soon they heard the sound of voices from below in the courtyard, yells and orders, before it became silent again. Then again waiting. He was praying to any gods willing to listen for luck, for his plan working, for his men not losing their nerves, when finally there was a click to his left.

Again silence, then the hidden door that was there was slipped open and his men sneaked in. As soon as he was inside he saw the corpses of three soldiers with their throats slid, one with an crossbow bolt through his shoulder. There was also one of the women who had come with him, now in a serving maids dress, an attractive lad, and he understood how they had managed to do this silently.

He gave out orders as silent as he could and in a matter of minutes his men were crawling around the castle like ghosts, killing the few patrols who were there, descending upon the guards on the towers and slipping the throats of the men sleeping in the barracks. He himself had only to draw his sword, which he of course had at his side, once, namely when he turned a corner with a still bloody axe in his hand and was immediately confronted with the a group of three armed if only half armored men.

The fight was short and brutal and bloody and it was a wonder that no one screamed alarm, perhaps because they were a bit drunk and seemed to think they could take on this dirty thief on their own. Only that this dirty thief was a better swordsman and not drunk AND had a blade that cut through their bodies like a hot knife through butter. It was over in a matter of seconds and he was thankful for that, because he was tired none the less and felt weariness creeping up on him.

Finally when he walked into the chambers of Lord Lefford he found them empty, not that he had thought otherwise. He knew that the heir of the Tooth, the lords only daughter Alysanne, was at the castle but her father was with Lord Tywins forces. But he was not interested in them at the moment anyway, he only wanted to make sure that the lords solar was left untouched, as he wanted as much information as possible. He had also given strict orders that no rooms were to be put to the torch, no prisoners were to be slaughtered and no women were to be raped. At the jokingly asked question what about raping men he had only answered with a heavy backhand and the words that if he would learn of such things he would throw the wrong doer from the battlements himself.

A few moments later he stood in the courtyard, his back to the citadel, and scanned the crowd in front of him. Men and women and children alike, dragged from their beds, only a few soldiers and knights among them. Most of them were servants like cooks, maids and ordinary hands, but there were well over a hundred of them.

"Who is in command here?"

A comely young woman with brownish blond hair looked up and stood up, despite the begging of others not to do it. It seemed the subjects wanted to protect their lady. She had seen perhaps twenty name days, but in the dark it was hard to say. "I am, my Lord. I am Lady Alysanne Lefford, the Lady of Golden Tooth. May I ask of your name?"

"Lord Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Protector of the Riverlands, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands... ah, well, I think you know who I am." It still felt strange to use all these titles, like he had not earned them yet. If that was true, then perhaps he had gotten one step closer to it on that day. "I take command of this castle. My army will be here soon and I would like to have this castle up and running by the time my men arrive. I hope we can work on this together my Lady."

If she was impressed by this she did not show it but only gave him an sceptical look, as if she did not want to believe him. Which he could not blame her for, because he looked like a rather dirty, a very dirty, scoundrel fresh from the forest and not like the man he proclaimed to be. "I take it I am your hostage?"

"You are the Lady of this castle my Lady, yet I hope you can forgive me for taking it by force."

Again she seemed to seize him up, before saying: "Very well. If you promise that none of my subjects will be harmed I will do my best to work together with you. But I don't have to like it."

"That is fair", he answered. "I give you my word, any man raping a woman, taking what your people need to live or harm them for fun will be executed by myself. Now, if you would give me the honor of giving me permission to escort you back to your quarters I would be delightet."

He gave orders to his men to take what plunder they want and to kill those who resist, as it was their right by the way of war, but not to kill if not needed to and no raping or burning or needless cruelty. Then he escorted the Lady back to her quarters, making sure that there were guards at her door, before turning in for the night himself, sleeping together with his men on the ground in one of the barracks. If they had to eat the same dirt he ate and bled as he did, the least he could do was sleeping as they did, at least for this night.

-

Sleep did come easily that night, but the dreams that welcomed him gave him no rest. He heard whispers of thousands of voices, a constant background noise, while he saw people dying. Dying in fire, dying in battle, dying by the sword, the axe, lance and bow, drowned and killed by illness and hunger. He saw fields burned, villages ravaged and houses destroyed. A battle for a city of pain and terror, people with the faces of demons and monsters throwing fire and horror down at men wearing the colours of the Reach and the Stormlands. Wolves surrounding a lone lion and tearing at his weakened body. A garden of beautiful flowers flattened by a flood. Voices and faces from unknown people, in pain and joy and horror and delight. 

"THE KING IN THE NORTH!!!"

Monsters and beasts of shaggy coat, large claws and teeth, sharp eyed and with snarling screams of fury and hate, descending in a snowy storm upon their prey. Killing and ripping and eating and trampling.

"I AM THE KING OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS, I CAN DO WHAT I WANT!!!"

A city was burning in red and green and blue flames, cryes of horror and delight alike filling the air. There was a boy with the soul of a monster laughing and raving and eating a mans heart, while around him a slaughter was going on, women being raped on top of their husbands corpses, children torn to pieces by wild hounds.

"THE IRON THRONE IS MINE BY RIGHT!!!"

A proud and strong stag with the body of a bull standing on a cliff, facing the coming blizzard and proudly bearing his antlers, not afraid of the coming darkness nor the storm.

"I AM THE DRAGON!!! I AM THE KING OF WESTEROS!!!"

And dragons. Dragons big enough to flatten a house and enough of them to darken the sky, their eyes like molten lava and their bodies rotten by time.

When he awoke he was covered in sweat and his head hurt like someone was hammering away at it. Was this what he had to choose between? Where these the kings fighting? As much as he loved his nephew, he was of the north. He knew next to nothing about the Red Fork and the Tumblestone and the Hags Mire and the Whispering Woods. When the war was over he would return to Winterfell, leagues away from the Trident. And since when was he a king?

Joffrey was a monster. No questions asked. And Stannis was... well, he was the best choice, but not a good one. And dragons? Targaryens coming back? He shuddered at the thought, though they could hardly be worse than Joffrey. But still...

For six hundred years the wars of the realm had always been fought in the Riverlands. The Stormkings had conquered it, then the Ironborn. The Targaryen conquest, the Blackfire Rebellions, the War of the Nine Penny King, Roberts Rebellion, the Greyjoy Uprsising... always it had been his men and women being killed, their field being burned, their coasts being plundered and their soldiers dying on the battlefield. Why should they bow to any man who saw them as little more than cattle, as ressources?

As he lay on the ground in the barracks, his men still sleeping around him, he made a decision.


	12. Brienne, Sandor, Jamie: The beginning of a journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While on Dragonstone Margaery's Future turns darker and darker, bigger forces than King's and Lords have been awakened, older things than even dragons. And they had began to look for champions to do their bidding.

The first time she had met the new king, Stannis Baratheon, it was after his victory over her husbands rainbow guard in the tourney of Storm's End, the tourney of the Crown called by the smallfolk by now. He had just looked at her and dipped his head, calling her My Lady and then gone already, not even taking the time to look at her more than once. All he propably thought of her was of her being a Tyrell and nothing more.

Over the years she had come several times to court but whenever she had been there, wether it was with her father of her brother or whoever, she did not cross path with the former Master of Ships. Renly had told her about him in words sometimes fond and sometimes stern, but never loving. Loras had always only held contempt for the ever scowling, plain faced man, to say that he did not like him was like saying the Mad King had have a mild affection for fire. And the more she saw of him, the more she understood why.

Because Stannis Baratheon was not an easy man to like. He was brusk and had no patience for those he considered fools or childish, which meant nearly everyone besides himself. His face was always set in a harsh scowl like he had bitten into something unpleasant like a rotten lemon. He was harsh and while he knew his manners, he was always doing them with such stern face and cold eyes that no one would ever take them for honest. Her grandmother, the famous queen of thorns, would have had a lot of fun with him.

Those were her thoughts while sitting in a comfortable chair, watching not only the sinking sun, a fireball dipping into the ocean, but also her brothers heavy breathing. Loras, oh beautiful Loras, beaten and ripped and still alive even after this much horror. His hair was burned, his face covered in ugly marks, his limbs broken, his hands twisted. She would have cried for him, had she any tears left.

For her husband, though she had not loved but respected and liked him, was dead, killed by his own nephew. That what she had been told by the men who had seen it, even though only after a lot of asking. Loras had become enraged it was told, hacking and killing everything coming near his beloved kings bloody body, disregarding his own safety and then hit by a brutal blow against the knee.

She still could not understand how the most powerful army in the whole realm, the combined forces of the Reach, the Stormlands and Dragonstone, led by one of the best commanders of the realm, if not THE best, had been beaten by a poorly protected city led by a boy. Yes, there were stories and reports of men disregarding their own lives and fighting like berserkers while laughing, even with their bodies nearly ripped open. Tales, told by those who had been there, of men and women on fire throwing themselves from the battlements against those attacking. Beasts and monsters, once perhaps human, crying and screaming and laughing and killing. But could that make such a huge difference? Could such strange, frightening forces beat an army so much bigger?

Apparently yes.

And now she was here, at Dragonstone, this bleak, frightening place where the castle itself seemed to be alive, where eyes were in every corner and shadows moving in the corner of her sight. Where fire burned to honor the red god, prayers filled the night, gargoyles seemed to come alive every time you did not look. She still could not understand how she had boarded the ship that brought her to safety so easily, without asking, perhaps it had been the fact that she did not know that they had lost when it had happened.

She was, to put it frankly, afraid. Afraid of the always scowling, angry Stannis Baratheon, whose eyes were as intensi as molten stone and whose voice was always ripe with bile and contempt. Afraid of the Red Woman, who looked at her like she was some kind of meat to be thrown into the cooking fire. Afraid of the knowledge that her future and even life was uncertain.

She had been the wife of a king, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms, made so by swords and the will of the people. Then suddenly she had become the crown princess of the realm, demoted by a man who felt only hate and dislike for her family. And then... then she had become a widow, made so by a boy who ate the heart of her husband and promised to rape her to death on the lifeless bodies of her family.

With a careful movement, not to wake her brother, she took Loras hand and helt it tight. Not strong enough to put him into misery again, but enough to feel him being alive. Next to her the once proud, golden furred stag of Renly whined a bit, as if he was feeling with her. Ever since her husband had died the proud, strong animal was only a sorry, sad being, the eyes dull and the head held low.

-

Everything hurt. Her legs felt like they were made of pudding, her arms burned, her head was ringing. And she was alone. And lost. And she was still bleeding. She was, to sum it up, screwed. And not in the fun way.

Brienne of Tarth, called thei Maid of Tarth, had the desire to lean against the next tree and just die, yet her oath and her inner self forbade it. Even a small rest could be deadly for her and she could not allow herself to just lie down and give up. Even if everything was lost.

When the army of King Stannis had marched on King's Landing she had been in the vanguard, even though Renly had protested against that. She felt in stab in the heart as she recalled the memory, of him arguing against sending out his Rainbow Guard not together but divided, but his brother had replied that there no longer is a Rainbow Guard. Only some very skilled warriors whose skill with the blade and the power of their presence where needed all around the battle field. And so Brienne was not send to protect Renly, her one and only true King, but to storm the Lion's Gate together with a force of ten thousand men.

It had been her first true battle and in a matter of seconds all her dreams of glory and honor were shattered, as next to her men died and fell, were put on fire and killed by stones. There was no honorable fight one knight against another, it was just a slaughter with men trying to survive. It was... horrorfying. Not the blood or the dying, she had expected that, but the screaming and the crying.

With a strong force of skilled soldiers from all over the Stormlands she had climbed the ladders and brought the fight up to the defenders, her powerful presence and strong voice carrying them forward like a banner to fight under. And then the true horror had began.

She was still amazed by the fact that she did not threw up at the sight of a city in flames and dying. A storm had above them, bringing thunder and heavy rain, and yet green and red and even blue flames were destroying the city, yet there was no panic or fear. Only total madness. A young woman had thrown herself at Brienne, laughing and her face twisted in a mask of pain and madness, swinging her crying baby like a club.

And that was only the tip of it.

They had been thrown back from the walls, she had to be pulled by her men to abandond the fight. Twice they attacked, twice they were thrown from the walls, before in the third attempt they finally stormed the gate house. She had known that her attack was not meant to the main one, more or less only a distraction, yet she had refused to give up and so had her men.

With a makeshift battering ram they had forced their way from the wall into the gatehouse itself, the first one in to be felled by a thrown axe. Then she had pushed herself in, dodged a sword and killed a defender with her blade on her own, the man falling to the ground with a gurgled laugh. The following battle had been long and bloody, her enemies, be them simple men and women or goldcloaks or a few knights now and then, refusing to simply die. No, they stood and fought when their arms were hacked off, when they had a grievous wound to the stomach, once even when the head was already missing.

And they threw themselves into the battle with no regard for their own safety, it was as if they enjoyed getting slaughtered. Which could not be said about her men, because while whatever madness and magic had taken hold of the one fighting for Joffrey, those following her were only men.

She did not know how long she had fought against monsters with faces of men and women, and against humans who had lost their minds, in the end she received a terrible blow from a spear, right through her stomach, and was thrown from the battlements. The sun was rising already and the heavy rain had stopped hours ago, when she stumbled into the woods north of the capital. Her men were gone, either abandoning her or dead.

When she woke up again, she could not even remember going to sleep, she had found herself under a massive, giant oak. Alone and weak. In the distance the city of King's Landing was still burning, yet not burning down, and the sound of slaughter and mad laughter were carried over to her by the wind.

There were no traces of king's Stannis forces, only the dead left behind to rot and to be plundered.

Even now, two days later, she could not understand how it could have happened. How she could have lost. She knew that she was the better warrior, a knight unfortunate enough to be born a woman. And how Stannis could have lost. He had bested Renly in his own game and had the biggest army of the entire realm, nearly hundred thousand men. And not only men, but also the magic of the Red Woman and perhaps even his own.

She did not like the man, but she respected him. Because of his skill and character. Because of him being a harsh but honorable man. Because he did not cast her away like anyone else would have done in his position. When Renly had been bested in the Tournament, meaning her and her sworn brothers, she had felt only shame for letting her King down. And fear for being send back home, as a battle field was no place for a woman, as so many men often said.

Yet Stannis Baratheon, the by then one and only true King of the Iron Throne, had just looked at her and told her to wait for further orders. As he had a war to win and needed good fighters. Not good men, but warriors, regardless of gender or heritage.

And now she had led him down too.

As she stumbled through the woods, her legs weakening and threatening to sending her to her knees any second, she cursed her own weakness and inability to win.

„Don't be so hard on yourself.“

She whirled around, or at least she tried to do so. In the process she overstepped and fell to her knees, her dirty sword in hand. In her blurry vision she could see a person, a tall man clad in dark clothing. She could not make out his face, everything was blurry to her, yet she got the impression that he was smiling. The loud thunder of a nearing storm she nearly did not hear, it was like she heard everything through thick water.

„You could not win. You fought valiantly and brave, unlike any other did so in this terrible affair.“ Except his voice, which she could make out just right.

„Wha... How... ?“ She tried to form a sentence, yet her tongue and head failed her. Was the world turning around her?

„Don't you dare to die on me. We're not finished with you.“

Then lightning hit and she knew no more.

-

Bugger the King. Bugger Stannis. Bugger everything.

Especially Sansa Stark. Because of not for her he would not have ended up in that situation.

Sandor Clegane, also known as the Hound, had left King's Landing the moment he was discharged from the Kingsguard, never looking back to drink and whore himself into an early grave. At least, that had been his plan. He got to the Kingsgate and no further, being driven back by... He had no idea by what.

Yet at the Red Keeps gate he was held up, then being send away with a warning never to return, because otherwise his head would adorne the Court before being hauled down to be used as ball for children. Despite the rather colourful warning, he had to give them that, he only scoled at them and insisted on being let in. He had served the House Lannister for long years and protected the little shit no sitting with his little ass on the throne for over ten years, he would not be send away by a mere guard.

Blades had been drawn and before he knew it he had killed two Goldcloaks and was on the run. The only reason why he got away with his life was, that the officer of the two unfortunate sabs found the situation hillarious enough to laugh himself silly over it.

He should have let at that moment, he knew he should do it, whores and piss poor ale were awaiting him, and yet he remained in the capital. To be fair, he did so while being surrounded by whores and piss poor ale, but he had no interest in one thing or the other, though he did enjoy both the days he waited for his time. For the moment to strike.

For the moment to rescue the little bird. Not so birdlike anymore, though perhaps still singing her pretty, silly little songs. If Joffrey had not yet killed her... Though if he would had done so, he would most likely parade her head through the city and dance on her corpse, so the chances of that were slim.

Sandor told himself over and over again that he did all this not because of any feelings or romantic nonsense. He was no fair knight riding to rescue his maiden in distress, it was only to bring her to her brother and secure himself a nice position to haggle for a safe life up in the north. Far away from King's and Lannisters and lies and wars and little birds with their pretty eyes and shining hair. When he had hit that thought he had immediately ordered another piss poor ale.

Bugger everything. And fuck the king.

He had known that the battle against Stannis Forces would be chaotic, but that had no even began to describe it. Something big had happened which he somehow had missed, as when darkness came over the city, from somewhere a wild mob appeared. A mob of frenzied maniacs, throwing with everything they got their hands on, even themselves, killing what got into their way and singing and babbling and screaming. And the mob hit Stannis armie with the force of a sledgehammer.

In the confusion, and despite the fires who came from everywhere it seemed, he made it to the castle and into the keep itself. He even found his way up to the chambers of the little bird, killing the man guarding her. Which had not been hard, because the fool had sat on the ground and cut himself with a knife, giggling like a little girl, watching the blood flow. A single cut and he was dead, never to rise again, yet still grinning like it was the most hilarious thing ever.

Bugger him. And bugger the little bird, because when he opened the door to her chambers she was not there but had apparently fled several days ago. Using a still opened secret door. Cursing his bad luck and all the gods above, the old and the new, he followed the same way and only hours later, hours filled with darkness and only dimmed light and the smell of blood and shit, he stumbled out of the labyrint like tunnels under the city.

His chances of ever seeing the girl again were none existand and he knew that, cursing a blue streak. Without her he could not secure himself a life in the North. And she could be hurt. Or raped. Or even killed. Or worse. The thoughts drove him mad, before he knew what he did. Then he cursed himself for getting mad over the thoughts and got mad over it.

Luckily a few poor sobs from the Reach, three outriders, stumbled upon him and tried to seize him, giving him the opportunity to work out his anger.

When he finally found his hidden stach, several miles outside the still burning city, he had been dirty and tired and all around pissed off, so he just mounted Stranger, his big, black horse, and rod off. To where he had no idea, only away.

It was three days later, three days filled with not knowing what to do and the slim hope of finding... something, that he stumbled upon the little birds younger sister.

At first he had not recognized her, all dirty and wild, her hair short and covered in... He did not want to know what it was. Only that she wasn't alone. If she were he would have smiled and packed her and hauled her off to Riverrun. Yet she wasn't and that was the problem. A very, very big problem. Because her companions were a group of wolves the size of ponies, their teeth large and their eyes angry.

„Oh... bugger this shit... fuck this...“

The small wolf, because she was one, snarled at him, her mouth filled with sharp teeth. And then she growled: „KILL HIM!!!“

Stranger rose up, kicked out and neighed and then he knew no more.

-

When Jamie woke up he was not in his comfortable quarters, or rather cell, in Riverrun any longer. Neither was he laying in a bed, but on the ground. A very soft and warm ground, but ground none the less. Moss and leaves had been his bed and when he looked around he recognized some sort of forest clearing. Though a very pretty one, unlike anything he had ever seen before. Warm sunlight, fresh, green grass, flowers and even a few small animals. Myrcella would have loved it, he was sure.

He too found the whole scenery stangely soothing, if only for him being out of his cell. Because no matter how comfortable a guest quarter is, if you can not leave it, it is a cell. At first he had slept in a cage, chained to a post, in the camp of the Young Wolf. When the Change had hit he had seen it, seen how all men and women fell to the ground, heard their cries and their wailing and for a second he had hoped for them to die, before he understood that that would mean that no one would ever give him anything to eat.

Luckily for him, not so luckily for his father though, they had survived and been changed. Changed into something more, or less, than human and for several days he had to fear for his life, even if he refused to show it. The new northerners were aggressive and easy to anger, rather funny to jape at, but he only survived the anger of one of his guards because the other ones were able to pull him off.

Riverrun had been a far better accommodations for him than the stinking cage, even if his chances of survival had been reduced even more, but at least he had fresh clothes and a bed to sleep in. Several times the Young Wolf had come to him and other than his men he had not been easy to rile up, most likely because he had victory on his side. Why get angry at someone trying to snark at you, when you know that you have just beaten him and his father several times? And there had of course been the big, menacing wolf with him, last time he had seen him large enough to pull a horse down.

Lady Stark had been funnier and way more entertaining, angrier and more furious, which was funny because she had not changed, unlike her son. She had made accusations against him and his family, about him trying to kill her son and killing her husband and holding her daughters hostage. But what could he, a simple man in a cage, do about that, he had answered? Perhaps she had not come to him to make this accusations, but to talk with a human being once more? With someone who is not a beast? Or is her bed getting cold? She had hit him for that snide remark and stormed out, followed by his laughter.

Edmure Tully and Brynden Tully had seen him once or twice, he could not remember, but while the young Lord of Riverrun had been a rather dull man with a soft heart and an even softer head, in his humble opinion at least, Brynden had been a downfall. As a kid he had always heart about the exploits of the famous Blackfish, the perhaps best knight of the realm, inspiring him just as te Silver Prince and Aegon the Conquerer. But now he was only old. Yes, still couragous and strong in body and mind, but old and tired. Like Selmy.

In hindsight, what had he expected? Some immortal man, still young and fresh despite his age? An unaging warrior of black hair and piercing eyes, at the height of his powress? Perhaps he had really done so. When provoked the old man had only given him a scolding look and warned him not to push it too far, because others were not as forgiving as him. And then he had left.

The remaining days in his quarters, cell, had been filled with mind numbing waiting. Waiting for news and messages, from the war, from the capital, from anything. He got none. Even if his captors had some, they had not felt the need to share them with the captured Kingslayer. So it had been a rather dull time. Until... now.

Pushing himself up he let his gaze wander across the clearing, stopping at the massive heart-tree at the other side of the clearing. Around him was a thick forest, so thick that he thought it impossible to push through it. And neither were there any tracks, human or horse, on the ground. How did he got here?

„You're smaller than I expected.“

It was a man speaking those words, a tall, lean man clad in oldfashioned chain mail and a green coat of arms... made from leaves and grass. Or perhaps grown from leaves and grass, he was not to sure. Jamie was unable to make out the eyes of the man, as they were hidden behind a simple full helmet and like his other armor and arms it was of simple, old fashioned design, yet of good quality.

„Well... What did you expect?“, Jamie asked with a slightly mocking tone, feeling suddenly quite naked only dressed in breeches and a crumbled shirt. Especially compared to this, he had to admit, quite impressive appearance. „A big, golden haired giant, showing around the heads of those he had betrayed and killed? A hulking brute, swinging a sword that no other man could lift? I'm sorry to dissapoint you, but I seem to have forgotten those items.“

For a second the man, if he really was a man, only stared at him. Jamie had still no idea where he had came from, because he could have sworn he had not been here a few seconds ago. Finally the man said: „I admit it was foolish of me to hope for such, but your legend has grown over the years and I was interested in meeting the man who had broken a vow and the heart of so many maidens.“

„When they throw their empty hearts at the first good looking knight they see, well, then that is not my fault.“

„True enough.“ A deep, empty chuckle could be heard. „I have heard a lot about you, Jamie Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister and Joanna Lannister, Slayer of the Mad King, Kingsguard, since the day I have returned to this world. You had my curiosity, but now you have my attention.“

„I'm honored“, he gave back, his tone making it clear that it was a mock. If the man understood it, he did not show it, he just stood there like a statue. „I take it you are the one responsible for my timely departure from my cell? Shall I thank you for getting me out of one cage and putting me into another?“

„That depends. While I was the one asking for you brought to me, I was not the one who took you from your bed and brought you here. That were a few old acquaintances of mine. However, now that I see you, I see that you are not ready yet.“

„If you want a fight, give me a sword and you will see that I am always ready.“

„Well, eager you are. However, you are not ready. Farewell, we will see each other again.“

Jamie was about to ask what he meant with that, for what he was not ready, then darkness took him and he fell to the ground. With a swift movement the green clad knight cought him and laid him against the weirwood tree. For a few seconds nothing happened, then the tree itself shifted and turned and claimed the body of the Lannister, pulling him in. The whole process took several moments, no longer than a minute, then he was gone.

„I had high hopes for you Kingslayer. I am sorry that you have to take this way“, the knight mumbled.

-

„He is not ready.“, he later said.

„Will he ever be?“, another voice asked, this one deep and filled with thunder. „He is a traitor, an oathbreaker.“

„He is the best hope the people have. The best I have to offer.“

A whisper could be heard, like it came from a thousand different, small voices speaking as one. „None of them are ready. But we don't have the time. We need them to be ready.“

„Then they must become ready, washed from their sins and weaknesses by penance, pain and suffering, forged in hardship and blood.“ The thundering voice again. „Just like in the old times, eh?“

„True. Yet they need a guide.“

-

Gendry Waters was not a happy boy. First his master had thrown him out and send to the Nights Watch. Then the Nights Watch caravan had been stopped by Goldcloaks looking for him. Then he had made the acquintance of Lady Arya Stark, even if she did not wish to be called so. Then everything had gone to hell and they had been attacked, first by Lannister men, then by wolves.

And then he had found a big, strong dog happily barking at him and wagging his stubby tail. A god with iron as teeth and piercing eyes and hardened wood under his fur, but a dog. A dog for only him, leading him away from the slaughter and protecting him and even feeding him.

The following weeks had become a nightmare of dodging people, for the first who had seen him had thrown stones and sticks at him and called him names like monster and beast, for the colour of his eyes, who had turned... strange. Or hiding from Lannister men and mercenaries prowling these lands, looking for prey, be this prey being Riverlander farmers of traveling merchants or poor sobs like him.

And now... now this.

He sat in the abandonded hayloft in which he had taken refugee the evening before, hiding from the heavy rain. Only that he was no longer alone. No, there now were three more people. A golden haired man who could have been Jamie Lannister, the Kingslayer, a large hulking man with a scarred face who may have been the Hound, and a large knight he had never seen before. And they were sleeping.

Well... great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter. I really do, because several times I had to rewrite it and I am still not happy with it.


	13. Tyrion Lannister: Onwards into the unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the world turned upside down, Tyrion is about to face some very unexpected surprises. For the better or the worse, it is hard to say.

Varys had known that the day would come, when he would have to flee the capital and he had made plans for that, yet they had gone awry because Stannis' army occupied blackwater bay and the young king had gone off the rockers. True, Baelish out of the way, and he had no idea where that man had gone off too all of sudden, had paved the way for some improvements in the capital, especially for his little birds, but that had only been a small drop of water onto a hot stone. 

He had always planned for a hasty retreat across the narrow sea, away from the backstabbing of westeros politics, yet always under Robert. In his mind it had all been a question of time before he was to be discovered playing both sides, on one hand acting as Master of Whispers on the usurpers council and on the other helping the last Targaeryens reclaiming their throne. Then Viserys had gone off and killed himself, that fool, and Daenarys' husband was killed by an infected wound. All these wonderful plans thrown into dissarray.

Of course they, him and Illyrio, had made several plans, in case one or two of them would fail, but then something totally unexpected happened: Magic.

Because though he despised to use the word, he had none that fit the situation better. Magic happened, turning men into beasts, animals into wild monsters, an old man into a beautiful youngster and the order of the world into absolute chaos. He was sure that even the behaviour of Joffrey, the vile little monster, was at least partly thanks to the magical influence of, well, whatever was to blame.

Now and then he thought it rather unfair that while other, undeserving men and women got the better luck, he remained an eunuch. And Lord Tyrion, of whom he thought rather highly, remained a dwarf. How unfair life could be.

Well, it was improving.

Getting out of the Black Cells had been really easy, all he had to do was to use the hidden tunnel only he knew off. Getting Sansa Stark out of her chambers had been a bit harder, but a few drops of a good working drug had made her as docile as a little lamb. He only had to drag her now and then, when she stopped and stared off into nothingness, but that was nothing he could not deal with. Armed with a sack full of silver and gold he made it to Rosby and then to Duskendale, using a series of disguises for him and the Lady Stark.

Even purchasing a ship had been easy, at least after finding a captain willing to set sail to Pentos, all he had to do was spend the rest of his money. Money of which his good friend Illyrio had more than enough of, so he was sure that as soon as they would reach Pentos everything would sort itself out. Lady Stark, or Princess Stark, was sleeping off the drugs in her system down in the cabin, he was not looking forward to the explaining he had to do, when he stepped onto the deck.

His bald head he hid under a wig of brown hair and a fake scar was on his left cheek, while he hid his plump appearance behind a simple merchants clothes. Even the Lady Stark was dressed like a common girl, wearing a simple blue woolen dress and her hair dyed brown.

Seeing the captain standing on the main mast and talking with one of his crew he made his way over. The captain was from braavos and commanded a crew of mixed heritage, from all over the narrow sea and beyond, and had demanded four pieces of gold dragons for the travel, double that for no questions asked. Varys had paid him ten. "How long to Pentos?", he asked when the big, lanky man turned to him.

"A week or more, depending on the weather", the older man answered. "We are no galley and the gods blow the winds and make the tides. But I know the route and the currents. We will make it to Pentos, unless the gods will it otherwise." A short pause, then he added: "King Stannis ships control Blackwater Bay and we may be stopped."

"Carrying nothing illegal, are you?", Varys asked with a small smile.

"Only if you are a wanted man."

The eunuch chuckled and gave him a fake smile. "Alas no, just a man fleeing from the troubled times. What news of the east, if I may ask you my good captain?"

Now the man answered with a deep sigh. "What news are there not these days? More war, between Myr and Lys again, maybe even Tyrosh. Strange things are seen on land and water, and there are news of dragons in the far east."

"Dragons?" That surprised Varys.

"Some fool sailor from Qarth said a young girl, more beautiful than he had ever seen one, came from the Red Waste with a scrambled group of Dothraki and three small baby dragons. And another man told a story of a golden crowned man riding a dragon in the Dothraki Sea, having destroyed two Khals already and waging war against three more."

"And you believe these stories?"

"There are stranger tales."

"True."

That was the moment a loud scream, that of a young woman, could be heard from below deck. "It seems my daughter has one of her nightmares again", Varys said hastily and rushed toward the ladder already, not hearing the captains reply.

-

He hated Harrenhall, now even more than normal so. It was a dark, imposing and rather ugly piece of rocks, partly molten and partly whole. And it was filled with Ghosts. The smallfolk believed so and told everyone who would listen and while he had always believed that to be only true in a methaphorical sense, he now knew that there were actually real ghosts. And on top of that were few of the by him least loved people currently there. Cersei was at least still bedridden, but his father was able to unleash his full cold fury and dissapointment at him.

Four days after their travel into the direction of Harrenhall the mountain men had left him and his small band of fugitives. "We have traveled far and wide and seen things unlike in our homes. And we are loaded with treasures and golds and weapons. It is time for us to return home, to the mountains", Shagga, one of the leaders of them had told him. "Farewell Halfman. You may be short in body, but have the heart of a Mountain Man."

He was disheartened to see them go, as they were not only usefull but also had become something akin to friends. Not only to him, but also his nephew Tommen, who was sad to see his friends go but put up a brave face. Myrcella, who had been frightened by them, wished them farewell like they were brave knights going off to war and Tyrion felt a tiny pleck of pride at seeing it, her behaving like a real princess.

When he told her that later when they were back on their way, she asked: "Uncle, do you think mother would have thought so too?"

His mind wandered to his beloved, he wretched inwardly while thinking this, sister lying in the carriage, silently weeping and crying for her beautiful baby. He had done his best to keep this from the men, but some had seen it and the small company was ripe with whispers. But instead of saying this he only smiled and said: "I'm sure she would have."

So it was only him, Bronn, Shae, Myrcella, Tommen and Cersei, together with ten guards and servants, arriving at Harrenhall. The small group was nearly not led in, as they were disguised as simple people, yet when he stepped forward and told the soldier at the gate that if he did not step aside immediately he would be flogged they were let in.

Cersei would have raved and screamed at him for letting her children travel with only so few men protecting them, but she had done the whole travel nothing else than laying awake and weeping. Shae had done her best to keep his nephew and niece entertained, as he did himself, yet the behaviour of their mother was clearly weighing heavily on them.

And then came the confrontation with his father, an event he would have loved to leave out.

"I have send you in my place to keep a boy in check and you come back crawling to me dressed in rags and bringing me news of having lost the city not to Stannis Baratheon, which I could understand, but to said boy himself." That were the first words hurled into his direction when he stepped into his fathers solar. He had not even taken the time to take a bath and get himself into more fitting attire, yet now he wished for nothing more. And perhaps another nights sleep, this time in a real bed and hopefully with Shae next to him, and a lot of wine. Yet now he stood there, still dirty from the road and miserable from the high steps of the stairs, they always caused him pain.

"It is a pleasure to see you father, thank you for your hospitality", he gave back, trying to keep his tongue in check. The sight of his father scowling at him and his dead uncle Kevan hovering next to the imposing man made it difficult for him. "I assure you, that I have done my best to do as you commanded, nothing less."

"That was apparently not enough", the older man grumbled. His voice was heavy with accusations and dissapointment, like always when he spoke with his youngest son. With the son whose birth killed his wife and dared to be born a dwarf. "You should have remained in the Capital to reign him in."

"He would had me killed."

"Perhaps that would have been for the best."

Though it was hardly the first time that his father hurled his dissapointment and loathing at him, it had never been this direct. Tyrion felt like a rusty knife had been plunged into his heart and the only reason he did not wince was because he did not want to give his father the satisfaction. So he only took the verbal beating and bowed. "As you say father. I will be in my chambers, drinking myself into a stubor as clearly I am not able to do anything right."

For a mere second Tywin stared at him and seemed to think, before he nodded. "Go, take a bath, make yourself presentable. I will have orders suiting your skills for you later the day."

-

His father did not have orders for him on that day and not on the day after it. Forced to wait and not willing to suffer the company of such men like Gregor Clegane and his followers, he remained in his quarters unless he had to grab something to eat or was summoned and even then he kept his visits to the outside of his chambers as short as possible. So he spend his days brooding and pouring over maps and books, drinking and talking with Bronn and Pod, even if the boy did not do much drinking and talking neither, and having delightful conversations with the ghosts of Harrenhall.

The spectres, he despised the word ghosts for them and had searched for a more fitting one for a while by then, of the place were vast in numbers and as different from one another just like living persons were. Tired old men dragging pieces of rock behind them, butchered young maidens, giggling children running through the room and not even taking notice of him. All in all they were a rather depressing bunch, most of them have died in violence and tragedy and thus had become bitter and sad beings, and not good for much besides robbing him of his sleep.

With the exception of a few of them, like his uncle Kevan. He got the feeling that the kind older man, he sometimes wished he had been born a son of his and not his father's one, was not bound to the place itself but to something else. Most spectres, or whatever you would call them, remained where they had died or in a place of significance to them. Kevan however was always following his father, like some sort of puppy, and kept saying things like "Yes brother", "Yes brother, of course" and "As you command brother". Perhaps he was bound to servitude, or to his father, Tyrion was not sure.

It was after the third night he slept in Harrenhall, he still had not gotten any commands as what to do and how to proceed from here on, when finally something interesting happened. He had spend the night alone in his bed, not willing to risk the security of Shae by calling her to him and being seen by her, and felt cold and cramped when he came into the great hall for breakfast. He did not even got halfway into the entrance, when a Maester he did not know was already in front of him. "My Lord Tyrion, her grace the queen is awake." A short pause, then he added: "She wishes to see you."

"Of course, thank you", he answered with a mocking grin. "If her grace commands, I will of course do as she says." And with that he strode past the rather young man, poor sod never again touching a woman, and into the great hall. He was even willing to face the unattractive prospect of suffering the company of weak minded fools and simpering idiots for an extended period of time, when it meant letting his beloved sister wait for a little while longer.

Taking his sweet time he nearly spend two hours in the hall at the high table, pushing his chicken and eggs and bread from one side of the plate to the other, sipping his lemon water and watered down wine, listening to boring conversations. When he finally stood up from his seat and waddled off he felt bad for Pod, who had been forced to wait the entire time. Making a vow to himself to make it up to the young man he waddled off, into the direction of his sisters chambers.

Or sickbed to be more precise, because as far as he knew, she had not felt it since they had arrived at Harrenhall, not even sat up. She had only layn there and cried and sobbed and sometimes slept, at least the ghost of an old serving maid had told him that. She had told him a lot of things, most of them as interesting to him as a growing piece of grass, but now and then a few good crumbs of news had been between them.

Yet as he arrived, his legs hurt terribly from the stairs, she was sitting upright on the bed, her back as straight as a piece of wood, her face set in stone and her eyes tired. "... you have saved them."

He looked at her and he needed a few moments to understand what she meant, before he knew that of course she was talking about Myrcella and Tommen. That he had brought them out of King's Landing and risking the wrath of Joffrey. Because it was rather likely, that the little shit had taken offense at this and had most likely already called for his head. Come to think of it, Tyrion was a little bit amazed by the fact, that he was not already send back to King's Landing in pieces. He shoved these thoughts to the side and nodded. "Yes, that I did. I'm sure you would have done the same thing... as would have Jamie."

Silence followed at the mention of their brother. Finally Cersei said: "I was in love with Rhaegar... I was so in love..." It was more of a whisper, not really aimed at him and Tyrion got the impression that she was talking more to herself than to him. "His perfect smile and perfect hair... Everything at him... He was perfect."

"Yet you married Robert Baratheon."

"Yes... The fool... the horror..." Her eyes became withdrawn and her breaths heavy. "When he hit me I remembered mother... and father's words... That I am a Lannister... That I am stronger than him..." Again a short pause. "The first time he hit me I confronted him about his behaviour... about... about him sleeping with a serving girl... groping her in front of everyone... I was so angry..."

Tyrion let her just talk and while he tried to listen, he could not, not really. So he just stood there and let her talk, about her marriage, about her children, about her being the queen everyone wanted to be and no one loved. No one except Jamie. And her children.

"That is..." She finally said and for the first time in what felt like hours, she looked at him. "... until now... Joffrey..." She shuddered. "He is not my son... Not anymore..." A sniff. "He was my perfect golden boy... my perfect little angel... golden hair... green eyes." Another sniff. "He looked so much like Jamie."

"Jamie would have never become something like that", Tyrion said in a mumble. "Our beloved brother has a many flaws, but cruelty is not among them."

"No. No it is not", his sister gave back. "Joffrey though... He is... He is like the Mad King reborn... Only with golden hair." A pause, then she added in a whisper: "He is always with him."

Tyrion blinked at her, not understanding. "What? Who is with whom?"

"The Mad King... I've seen him... I've seen him sitting with Joffrey. Talking. Laughing. Talking and laughing and pointing and screaming. Burn them all." She shuddered, as did Tyrion himself.

"... have you seen more like the Mad King? Others of those who are dead?"

"... yes..." Then, with a tired voice she asked: "Do you believe me gone mad? That I have lost my mind over the loss of my golden boy, my beloved child? Go on... go and make your jokes. Point at me and laugh."

Tyrion opened his mouth to do so, but all that came out was: "I don't believe you have lost your mind. I believe the world has lost it's mind and we are just along for the ride, like tiny little drops of water in a mighty ocean. For when you have gone mad, so have I. For I have seen them too. And I still do."

-

It was a far cry from a loving relationship he began to build with Cersei, but it was a beginning, a peace offering. No amount of love and forgiveness could make the hurt and loss make forgotten, too deep were the wounds in both their hearts. For he was the reason she had lost her mother and her father perhaps too, and she was the reason for so many hurt feelings and broken dreams for him. But they were siblings none the less and even if they could never love one another, they could hold respect for each other.

He sat with her for hours every day, a whole week he did. They talked, about a lot of things, about politics and marriage and war and peace. And about their family, about their father and their mother and Jamie and her children. About how Myrcella was becoming the beautiful princess she had always been destined to be, and how Tommen was her sweet summer child and that Tyrion would do his best for him to remain so.

And about their shared gift of seeing and hearing those who had died before them. Of the whispers in the dark and the shadows moving through the hallways and corridors. Of secrets and tales told by lips long dead. He learned that Cersei had first seen them a few days prior to her public whipping by Joffrey's Kingsguard, that it had terrified her and at the same time intrigued her. And that she thought that there was more than just seeing and hearing. What if the ghosts could do more than just listen and watch? What if they could become more, could be more useful to them?

The idea intrigued him, he had to admit, but at the same time he saw no reason to follow that path. He had a war to fight, even if their father did not seem to wish him doing so, and had neither the time nor the reason to follow this trail of thought. But he encouraged her to do it, to find a way of using her gift even better, if only to keep her from doing something dumb.

It was a week after his first visit to her chambers and still no word from his father at what he was to do. The northern host had attacked their forces twice in that time, both times killing hundreds of their men, creating chaos and tarror and retreating before they could mount a good defense, like they were fighting a horde of raiders and not an army. Reports about wolve attacks had become so frequent that Tyrion began to think of them as daily routine and as nothing special.

He had just got up from his breakfast, sharing it with Bronn and even Pod, when he was summoned to the council room of his father. When he arrived, dressed in his best doublet and tunic and his loyal squire Pod at his heels, he was the last to be there, earning him a warning glance from his father. He could have sworn it was a trick of the bitter old man.

However, it was not his father who held his interest, not even his sister who stood at the window, but the man smiling at him. "Lord Baelish", he said and made his way to the master of coin. At least in name. "I must admit, if the god of wine and tits would appear before me and proclaim me his avatar, I would be less surprised."

"Glad to be of service my Lord Lannister", the ever smiling, smug man answered and gave him a slight bow. Without any more ceremony he took a seat at the big, long table, as did everyone else.

Tywin sat down at the end of the table, of course, and Cersei claimed the seat to his right. Beside them the highest ranking officers of the army were there, Ser Gregor Clegane, as well as of course Lord Baelish. As soon as everyone sat his father began. "We are loosing this war. Robb Stark is refusing us an open battle, knowing that we would win, and Edmure Tully has taken Golden Tooth from us, threatening Lannisport itself. Also have the Crag and Ashemark fallen to his lords. And we have even lost the Capital, though not to the enemy, but to my foolish grandson who has proclaimed himself King of all Kings and ordered me to come to King's Landing and take my knee."

Tyrion winced, as did Cersei. Both could think as how well that would have gone down with their father.

"He has also ordered me to send Tyrion here to him, for him facing the, and these were his words written in the letter to me, rightful justice for kidnapping the King's sister and brother." He turned to Tyrion, giving him a mocking glare. "You will be delightet to hear that I have no intention of doing so."

"Indeed I am", he gave back. And he really was, knowing only too well that him losing his head would then be the least of his worries.

"As should we all, as the wit and good head of Lord Tyrion will be needed in the coming time." It was Petyr Baelish who spoke these words and like always with him, Tyrion felt dirty just after hearing him speak. Why were all his words so loaded with lies and betrayal and just too much smugness? "If I may say so Lord Lannister..." These words were aimed at his father, who only nodded once, giving Baelish permission to keep talking. "... I can bring a lot to the table, turning the war around, I'm sure."

"And what makes you say so? Where have you been, since we have send you to bargain with Renly?", Cersei asked, her voice heavy with poison, a harsh contrast to the smooth talk of the whoremonger.

"That your grace is a long story, but let me assure you, flying is a very strange yet exciting experience." He smiled.

"Flying?"

"Yes."

Had it been sane times, Tyrion would have laughed. Yet he had spend a few minutes this morning converting with Harren the Black, who was he to say flying was impossible? For he had seen stranger things in the months prior. "Well, I'm sure you will have a lot to tell, later. Go on please, we are dying to learn of your news."

A grin to full of himself and too broad to be good appeared on the face of Baelish, before he said: "I have married Lady Lysa Arryn, making me the acting Lord Protector of the Vale, of course only until young Lord Robert is old enough to rule himself. At the moment the lords of the Vale are calling their banners in their lords name, ready to ride to war against the rebells." The grin on his face was seriously pissing Tyrion off, it made his blood boil. Although that were good news, he did not like the fact that Baelish was now such a powerful man, if he was telling the truth. But what reason would he have to lie? Then the master of coin added: "And I have already made contact with Mace Tyrell, who is willing to negotiate an alliance against the Starks and their allies."

If the first news had been heavy, this one felt like a punch in the stomach. A good one though.

"That are good news indeed", Tywin said with his dry voice, his face not betraying any emotion. "We will talk about this later in private." Then he turned to his commanders. "Lord Brax, you and your men will set out to carve a bloody path back to the Westerlands. You will ride out in two days. The rest of the army will follow one day later. Ser Clegane, you will remain here and hold Harrenhall against any attacks."

He rose and turned to lock eyes with every of his commanders, one after another. "The Riverlords have began to attack our homes and lands. That can not go unpunished. We will return home and explunge them from our lands, before we will raise their's to the ground."

The irony did not escape Tyrion, but he referred to speak out. Have the Riverlords not just did to them what had been done to them first? Did not his father began this war when unleashing the Mountain that rides? Sure, it was because he himself had been captured by Catelyn Tully, but the more he thought about it, the more he got the impression all this was only a great missunderstanding.

"Leave me with my family and Lord Baelish."

While the lords and knights got up and strode out of the room, he sought the eyes of his sister. She was shooting poisonous looks at the whoremonger and while he shared the sentiment, he knew that alienating the man was not in their interest. Because if he really had now the Vale behind him and the ear of the Tyrells, he was a too powerful man to ignore.

-

It was three days later that Tyrion left Harrenhall behind. He sat on top of a horse in a saddle specially made to his special needs, Lord Bronn next to him. The sellsword finally got his lordship like Tyrion had promised, raised by his father, though the old man had not been happy about it. The two of them were riding in the middle of the large host of westerland soldiers and knights, followed by equall that number of servants, cooks, whores, folks needed to run and feed and equip an army.

His mind was on the prospects before him, the time in front of him. His father had not given him any orders or commands except that he should treat carefully and should refrain from doing any more damage, as if it had been his fault, that his nephew had lost his mind. It seemed that with the prospect of an alliance with the Vale and the Reach his father had no further use of him and did his best to keep it that way. So there he was, sitting on a horse, riding into a future in which he had no place if he would not carve out one himself.

In the distance he could see the small force of Vale knights, making their way south, accompaning Lord Baelish who was on the way to Highgarden. On winged horses, called Pegasi. The men of the Vale had now winged horses, if only a handful of them. But now matter how few, this alone would change the war, this one and those following.

He chuckled slightly and Bronn gave him a questining look. "What is so funny, Lord Imp?"

"Well, Lord Sellsword, I just thought about what will come next. Demons in the capital, wolfmen ruling the North, winged horses in the Vale. It is a new world indeed."

"That it is Lord Imp. Who knows, perhaps your father can now ACTUALLY shit gold."


	14. Five Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While plots are made and the war proceeds on, the different men calling themselves King have to understand themselves why they fight for a crown. And if it is for the crown at all.

Of course scouts and forward riders saw the movement of the Westerland Army, watched them leaving Harrenhall with sharp eyes. Their report was brought to Lord Glover immediately, who was in command of the vanguard, who brought it to Robb Stark himself. The northern host was camped out in the woods between Lord Harroway's Town and Harrenhall, they have not even build a real camp, they had just slumped down on their cloaks and inside small tents, in a loose formation.

The King in the North did not look very kingly when he looked up from the letter he was writing, dressed in a dirty tunic and worn breeches. Next to him was his armor in a neat pile, together with his cloak and weapons, only a dagger was on his belt. He did not even wear a crown or something alike, no one would have thought him a king, as he was sitting on a big root of a tree, if not for the respect his men showed him. "Lord Glover."

"You'r grace", the man grumbled and dipped his head. The first days of him becoming king everyone got on their knees when talking to the young man, but he ordered that to stop, especially in the field. He said that they following him into a war and gaving their lives into his hand is more than enough respect, what more could he ask for?

"What news of our scouts?"

"The Lannisters are marching in force. They are heading west, most likely trying to get back into the Westerlands." That was a fair assumption, as the Riverlords under Robbs uncle Edmure had taken revenge for the burning of their lands and started to ravage the Westerlands. After the taking of the Golden Tooth goldmines had been plundered, castles taken and spoils brought back to Riverrun, they even threatened Lannisport and the Rock itself. It was only natural for the Lords under Tywin Lannister to feel the need to go back home and defend what is theirs.

"Good." The young king stood up, putting away his quill and feather. "Inform the army. We will attack Harrenhall and march on the morrow."

"As you command your grace." With another dip of his head Lord Gloves excused himself and turned around, spreading the word to the other lords in command and thus the rest of the army.

Robb himself took his time to put away his belongings and getting dressed, putting on his armor with the help of his squire Olivar Frey, one of the few humans still with the army. Because no matter how much he wished it to be different, neither Robb nor his men were really human any longer, they had become something else. Something more or something less, depending on who you ask.

With himself presentable, dressed in his scale and plate armor and with his heavy cloak around his shoulders, he made his rounds around the camp, which was spread out between the trees and the underbrush. He did not wish his men to die for a man who they don't know, if he asked them to risk his life for him, the least he could do is not being a stranger. He talked with a guard here, joined a game of dice there and gave encouranging words to men working on their swordwork, held smalltalk with a cook and shared a cup of ale with one of the hunters prowling the area.

His mood was if not good, at least not bad, until he came to the area that served as a mobile (Lazarett). Groans and moans from the wounded could be heard and the stench of dried blood and healing herbs filled the air. The four tents, one big one and three smaller ones, were rather secluded from the rest of the encampent, to keep the men seperated from those injured, otherwise the morale would go down rather fast. And it allowed the maesters and their helpers to work in some sort of peace.

Though he felt uncomfortable with all that foul smell in the air, he shad a duty to his men. They deserved to be seen, to be heard, they had earned that right with their health and sometimes even a limb. Stepping into the biggest tent, the one in which the maesters did their work, he was immediately assaulted with myriads of sensations and he needed a few seconds to brace himself.

And just as he had done so, he was drafted into helping out. "Don't stand around there, help me."

It was a rather pretty woman saying this, though the blood on her clothes and face discrated from that. And she was looking at him with tired, but fierce eyes, waiting for his reaction. She was not a northern girl, her face was smooth and pure human, though exotic. From Essos? He could not place her, yet he did notice that she had pretty eyes.

"Umm... what should I do?"

"Hold down this man here."

He did as ordered and pushed the young man down into the bed, so that she could bandage his bleeding wound, a large gash in the upper arm. All around them were other patients, waiting for the maesters to tend to them., who did their best to tend to everyone.

"You are not a silent sister", he finally said, when the bandage was finished and the young man had passed out from the pain. Poor sob.

"No."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"Do I need to be a woman of the faith, to feel the need to help others?", she gave back while already turning to the next man. "Here, hold this."

Again he did as ordered, holding the tools she needed and giving them to her when she said so. It was a strange experience for him, but neither did he complain nor did he think twice about it. "That's not what I meant... It's just..."

Instead of answereing directly she looked up to him from her work, cutting out the infected flesh of a leg wound and cleaning it with a paste of alcohol and herbs. "Just that you can't imagine why someone would do this out of free will?"

"... perhaps." He shrugged. "And I have also noticed, that there are men here who serve the Lannisters. Men who are our enemies."

"Your enemy, not mine." She cut into the wound and the scream of the man, more of a boy, was only muffled by the leather he was biting into. "They are also husbands and sons, lovers and brothers... They have not killed Lord Stark. They just follow their lord into battle, like you do."

Robb twitched at the mention of his father, but he kept his thoughts on the matter to himself. "Which makes them my enemy. That's the unfortunate situation of war."

"That may be... but they bleed and die as you do, so why should I not tend to them?"

He had no answer to this and spoke no more of it. It was hours later, when she had nearly dropped from exhaustion, that he excused himself and left the area and returned to his own sleeping place, his head full of thoughts about justice, dying, loyality... and pretty eyes. It was only then that he noticed, that he had not asked for her name.

-

"Am I your prisoner, your grace?"

Stannis Baratheon turned around when he heard the voice and scowled. That was not unusual for him, he often scowled, especially since the day he had lost the battle against Joffrey Baratheon... Waters, Joffrey Waters. He should have won ten times over, he had an army big enough to crush nearly everything in it's wake, he had the best commanders, he had experienced men. Yet his forces had been thrown back into the water of the Blackwater and the Tyrell forces had retreated when it was apparent, that they could no longer win.

And now Margaery Tyrell and her brother, the fabled knight of flowers, were his guests here at Dragonstone. Shireen was thankful for that, she spend a lot of time with the pretty young woman from Highgarden, even though he did not like it. But what should he do, forbid it? That would neither be proper nor fair, especially for his daughter.

It was now two weeks that he had retreated to Dragonstone, pulling together as much forces as he could, while at the same time seeing how the forces from the Reach did not answer to his commands or calls. Damnable Tyrells, as loyal as a rat. 

"You are a prisoner of the circumstances", he answered then to Margaery Tyrell, who had surprised him in the hall in front of his chambers. He neither had the patience nor the desire to deal with this woman. She was fickle, snobbish, always smiling, a perfect flower. Pretty to look at but not worth much more. Like his brother had been. He felt a pang of guilt as he thought of Renly.

"Then give my brother and me a ship to return to Highgarden. To Storm's End at least, from there on we can find our way on our own."

"The waters are not safe and I will not risk any of my forces for your security." Not to mention that her brother was still not stable enough to travel. Any long journey could be his death and maester Cressen had forbidden it.

"So we are your prisoners, your grace."

His eyes bore into her and she only smiled in response, like it was an armor protecting her from his wrath. If he would have been any other man, it would have worked. "I have no desire to be in your presence longer than necessary, I assure you that you are not my prisoners. If you were, you would be confined to your quarters or even the dungeon."

Again that infuriating smile from her, so polite and false and perfect that he felt his rage boil inside him. He buried it under layers upon layers of self control and loathing. Yes, she was making him very angry, as angry as her father had done sixteen years ago. When he felt the hunger gnawing at him, when he had been forced to eat dogs and cats and even rats, when Renly had asked again and again when Robert will come and told him that he is hungry and that he hates Stannis.

Suddenly he felt a presence behind him and a weight on his shoulders and without needing to take a look he knew, that it was his companion, the massive bull like creature, laying it's head on his shoulders. He smelled him, smoke and fire and animal, and felt his heartbeat. He unclenched the fist he had not noticed he had clenched.

"Perhaps it would be best if we take this conversation somewhere else. Somewhere more private", the Tyrell girl said, her smile never leaving her face. But her eyes had changed. When at first they had been firm and hard, now the were filled with worry. At least, that was what Stannis thought he saw.

"I can not imagine what we could talk about."

"Our war."

"My war."

"See, we have lot's to talk about your grace." And with a winning smile that would have melted the heart of any lesser man she walked past him, into the direction of his solar.

Again he felt his blood boil and again the presence of his companion kept him calm. But she was right, he had a war to win and as much as he hated to admit it, she was the daughter of one of the most powerful men in the entire realm. She was an important part in any plans he was about to make.

-

He was a king. He had no idea of what, but he was a king. He had a crown on his head and he felt the urge to rule, so it was rather obvious that he was a king. Or perhaps an emperor? A crownprince? He was so confused sometimes.

Under him the mighty beast serving as his mount roared and growled, gnawing on the carcass of a horse and chewing on the remains of the rider. It had been a sellsword in the service of Pentos, one of the many warriors send against him and his horde. Why again was he leading a horde? He had forgotten.

The battlefield was a terrible sight to behold, filled with the carcasses and corpses of men and beasts of burden alike. Sellsword, militias, men drafted into the defense forces. They had been send to stop him and his advancing army, to keep him from reaching Qohor. Why again was he marching there? He could not remember, but it was the right thing to do, he knew that. It felt kind of right doing it. Now that he had beaten the vast host send against him and his men, he knew that he would next have to fight the city guard of Qohor. A guard which consisted entirely of Unsullied. He remembered being to Qohor once and seing them standing vigil... Did he? Had he really been there? Yes, he had. Perhaps.

A lot of things he did he could not explain why, but he did them anyway because they seemed to be the right thing to do. He could not even remember why he was riding the giant land dragon, a massive beast with a head as big as a horse and legs as thick as tree trunks. Sometimes he remembered a time where there had been no such animal, if you could call it an animal, when the biggest animals known were the big elephants from the south. Now he was riding a dragon.

Though, not a real dragon, because a dragon had wings and could fly. He recalled how he had explained it to his sister, when they both had been children. No, that could not be true, he had no sister. He would know that. Wouldn't he? Would he?

Shoving the thought to the back of his head he gave his mount a mental command to get moving, something that came naturally to him, and the giant reptile under him marched forward in slow but steady movements. 

Ah yes, the throne. The throne was his by right of conquest. But shouldn't he then have to conquer it first? And what throne anyway? There was no throne in Qohor, at least not that he could remember. But there was gold and silver and plunder, things his men lusted for and things he needed to pay an army. An army to conquer the throne.

He was so confused sometimes.

-

Brynden Tully and Catelyn Stark did both look at the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands like he had grown a second head. He could understand that reaction, he really could, but he was sure of his course.

"That is foolish, boy", his uncle said with a scoff and crossed the arms in front of his chest. Of course he would react that way, Edmure had not thought he would say anything else. Well, perhaps a few more insults, though that had lessened after he had taken Golden Tooth and thrown back two armies send from Lannisport.

"I know", he answered but his face remained strong and his voice secure while doing so, something he did not have thought he could do. But then a smile stole itself onto his face, one of those he had worn as a child when playing pranks on his sisters. "But what else should I do?"

"Take the knee", his sister, Catelyn, said to him, her tone stern. Like she was talking to a foolish boy who was making a stupid decision, instead of her grown up brother. Perhaps he would always remain her little brother in her mind, he could certainly relate. For him, she too would always remain the fiery haired girl with the soft smile and tender hands carrying him to bed. "Robb can win. We can not allow ourselves to be torn asunder in the face of the enemy. Take the knee to Robb and rule in his name."

"He has the stuff, he is a king if I ever saw one, best we can have. Don't be stupid, do as your sister says." Again his uncle, scowling and grumbling. The cut on his left tie was still not mended, but not life threatening either. Lannister men had attacked from the south, from Silverhill and Deep Den, and his uncle had thrown them back into the Blackwater Rush near Stoney Sept, but got a spear to his leg while doing so. Just one more scar he had said.

"Oh sweet sister, I'm sure you have best intentions, not only for your son but also for the land you were born in, but that is not the way." For a second Edmure allowed himself a sour smile, because what he was doing was nothing he wanted to do. He wished for a maiden in his arms, the taste of her lips on his', the night to spend with her alone and the following day to spend with friends going hunting and dancing and singing. Not this, never this. "His Grace Robb Stark is a just, skilled and good king. A northern king. And this is not the North. This is the Riverlands, leagues away from Winterfell, to where my nephew will go back to once this war is over. This is the Land of Rivers and Hills, where the Seven are worshipped and we have to fight for our very survival in every war. I know that Robb Stark could be a good king, a great king even, but he knows nothing about the rushing of the Green Fork and the sweet water of the Tumblestone, nor of the smell of fish sold on our markets and the taste of beer in the Kneeling Man. Our people have suffered so much, they had lost so many they love and so much more, they deserve that we give them something back."

For a long while both his uncle and his sister just stared at him with a mixture of wonder and shock in their eyes, before Brynden finally said: "That does not make you a good king."

"And what would make me a good king? Victories and power?"

"It would be a start."

"Joffrey Waters has both. And is he a good king? Is he?"

"He has his blonde arse parked on a throne, one made from molten swords!", the older man snapped. "That makes him a king! That makes him THE king!"

"That makes him a tyrant!! I am through with Dragons and Lions, and so are our people! I will no longer bow down to men who have my people killed and their fields burned!"

"Do it."

Edmure's head snapped to the side, where his sister had sat down on a small sitting bench, her face pale and her hands shaky. But on her lips was a tiny, mysterious smile, perhaps even a proud one. And she said: "Do it. Go and make yourself king of the Riverlands. A king with a soft heart."

"And a soft head", Brynden mumbled.

To which Cately answered: "Well, he has you on his side. And I'm sure we can find a woman with a good head on her shoulders to reel him in."

Edmure winced at the notion of marrying. He hated being king even before he had become one.

-

King's Landing was still burning, even after weeks of flames roaring and fires destroying houses and killing people. But houses got build up again and burned down again and people screamed and died a thousand times over or just once forever, no one was really sure. It did not matter anyway, because something had happened there which had changed things.

The Dragon Pit was gone and in it's place was now only a massive, gaping maw, filled with teeth the size of horses and spitting out bile and acid. From which crawled forward beasts and monsters and nightmares who danced and laughed and killed and maimed and then died themselves. Some also remained where they were, in this realm of existence, and fled into the landscape surrounding the city.

Joffrey grinned from one ear to the other, and that was meant literally, and he giggled like a small boy getting his first name day present as he saw them standing before him. Seven warriors dressed in fine armor made from bone and flesh and steel and sweet pain, gripping weapons forged from things so vile and evil that people could not understand it.

This was going to be so great. Surrounded by a mass of scantily dressed women, or things not entirely women but seductive none the less, he inspected his army. Seven legions, led by the seven most deadly warriors there were, be it with axe, sword, lance or bow. Seven thousand men and women, because he did no longer care who killed for him as long as they did it, ready to march on his command, ready to burn and plunder and kill and rape and do all those funny things. Again he giggled, then he bit into the piece of meat he was offered by one of the women. Hmmm, soft and tender, newborn most likely.

How had he ever lived without such wonderful taste. It's good to be king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I brought back Viserys. Sort of. Not really. I'm not sure yet. It is Viserys and yet it isn't.


End file.
